


Green-Eyed Snake III: Harry Potter and the Secret Keeper

by Tathrin



Series: Green-Eyed Snake [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Book 3: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Gen, Slytherin Harry, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-04-18 11:52:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 143,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4705073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tathrin/pseuds/Tathrin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry’s third year in Slytherin starts off with a bang, but an escaped convict may put an end to his dreams of a quiet term before they begin. Can even his friendship with the Malfoys save Harry from the over-protective concern of every adult at Hogwarts? And why does it seem like Draco knows more than he's saying?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Owl Post

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third story in the _Green-Eyed Snake_ series, an AU story in which Harry Potter, due largely to meeting the Malfoys, rather than the Weasleys, while trying to get to platform nine-and-three-quarters, finds himself sorted into Slytherin. This third volume of Harry’s life as a Slytherin begins with a slightly-altered excerpt from _Prisoner of Azkaban_ , starting on page three of the American hardcover version.
> 
> As with the first two volumes, this story will often quote directly from the source material as well as paraphrase and, on occasion, gloss over parts rather than retell sections that remain nearly identical to the original version; in such instances, I trust that you’ll be able to simply incorporate what you already know. After all, I don’t want to change anything that wouldn’t be changed by Harry’s new, different life. Therefore things will become more divergent as time passes, and the ripples from this change spread out through the world. Other things will, of course, happen exactly as they did originally, since Harry would have had no direct effect upon them occurring.
> 
> I am not trying to steal Jo’s words and pass them off as my own; I’m sure you’ll all be easily capable of recognizing the original wording when it shows up. It should be rather familiar! I have chosen not to mark the quoted sections as doing so disrupts the flow of the story. I am not doing this to steal, but rather to maintain the original flavor and feel of Potter. I’m certainly not doing it to be lazy; I assure you, it was much more time-consuming to find all the relevant passages, and much more difficult for me to try and write in a way that would (hopefully) seamlessly integrate Jo’s words rather than to simply let loose in my usual tone. But I thought it was important to incorporate these bits and sections. I think the story is somewhat more disturbing when it feels like you’re reading the original _Harry Potter_ …just with a strange, greenish twist.
> 
> Thank you. I hope you enjoy.

Harry Potter was a highly unusual boy in many ways. For one thing, he hated the summer holidays more than any other time of year. For another, he really wanted to do his homework but was forced to do it in secret, in the dead of night. And he also happened to be a wizard.

It was nearly midnight, and he was lying on his stomach in bed, the blankets drawn right over his head like a tent, a flashlight in one hand and a large leather-bound book ( _A History of Magic_ by Bathilda Bagshot) propped open against the pillow. Harry moved the tip of his pen down the page, frowning as he looked for something that would help him write his essay, “Witch Burning in the Fourteenth Century was Completely Pointless – discuss.”

The pen paused at the top of a likely-looking paragraph. Harry pushed his round glasses up the bridge of his nose, moved his flashlight closer to the book, and read:

> _Non-magic people (more commonly known as Muggles) were particularly afraid of magic in medieval times, but not very good at recognizing it. On the rare occasion that they did catch a real witch or wizard, burning had no effect whatsoever. The witch or wizard would perform a basic Flame-Freezing Charm and then pretend to shriek with pain while enjoying a gentle, tickling sensation. Indeed, Wendelin the Weird enjoyed being burned so much that she allowed herself to be caught no less than forty-seven times in various disguises._
> 
> _It was far more common for Muggles to burn other Muggles than it was for them to actually succeed in executing a witch or wizard. Despite the panic that the magical community felt over witch hunts, the number of actual magical persons who died was quite low, comparatively speaking. Only by catching a witch or wizard off-guard, or completely outnumbering them, were Muggles able to overpower a magic-user. The complete list of magical persons burned, drowned, stoned, hanged, crushed, or otherwise executed by Muggles is impossible to tally accurately, but those witches and wizards known to have died during the witch hunts of this period include..._

Harry clicked his pen and began to write, pausing every now and then to listen, because if any of the Dursleys heard the rustling of his paper on their way to the bathroom, he’d probably find himself locked in the cupboard under the stairs for the rest of the summer.

The Dursley family of number four, Privet Drive, was the reason that Harry never enjoyed his summer holidays. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and their son, Dudley, were Harry’s only living relatives. They were Muggles, and they had a very medieval attitude toward magic. Harry’s dead parents, who had been a witch and wizard themselves, were never mentioned under the Dursleys’ roof. For years, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had hoped that if they kept Harry as downtrodden as possible, they would be able to squash the magic out of him. To their fury, they had been unsuccessful. These days they lived in terror of anyone finding out that Harry had spent most of the last two years at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The most they could do, however, was forbid him to talk to the neighbors—a rule that Harry often thought about breaking, just to see the Dursleys’ faces if he did. The knowledge that he would also be breaking the International Statute of Secrecy, and thus angering the Ministry of Magic, however, kept him silent.

At least this year he could do his homework, unlike last summer. Harry had cleverly packed his schoolbooks in a pillowcase filled with dirty laundry—the one thing he _was_ allowed to take out of his trunk when he got home, because the Dursleys certainly weren’t going to buy him new clothes to replace the things he’d worn at school—and then smuggled them into his room by claiming that they were “just books.” Since books bored the Dursleys they didn’t care what Harry did with them, as long as he lied and promised they weren’t _spellbooks_.

His broomstick and other magical possessions—other than his wand, which he’d prudently had in his pocket when he got home—were still locked-up in the cupboard that had once been his bedroom, but between his owl and his books, he didn’t really mind the loss of everything else; he wouldn’t have been able to do anything with his cauldron or broom over the summer anyway.

He just hoped that none of his teachers objected to his use of a ballpoint pen instead of a quill. They had given him a lot of holiday work, and Harry knew that even if he’d wanted to copy everything out again onto parchment properly during the train ride to Hogwarts, he wouldn’t have had enough time to re-write it all. He’d thought about trying to trick his aunt and uncle into letting him have a quill, but had decided it wasn’t worth upsetting them over. Even if his teachers did take points for improper formatting it would still be better than last year, when he hadn’t had any homework to turn in at all.

Harry was particularly keen to avoid trouble with the Dursleys at the moment, as they were already in an especially bad mood with him, all because he’d received a telephone call from a witch one week into the school vacation.

Hermione Granger, who was one of Harry’s best friends at Hogwarts, came from a family of dentists. This meant that unlike the rest of Harry’s friends, she not only had a telephone in her house, she also knew how to use one. Harry had given her the Dursleys’ phone number at the end of the school year. Unfortunately, it was Aunt Petunia who answered when she called.

"Yes, Petunia Dursley here.”

Harry was in the room at the time, but he couldn’t hear the speaker on the other end of the phone, so he didn’t pay the call any attention until he heard his aunt say:

"Harry Potter! What on earth do you want to talk to _him_ for? Who are you?”

Harry froze, then looked around for something to hide behind. He hoped that if he could get close enough without Aunt Petunia seeing him, he would be able to eavesdrop.

He needn’t have worried: when Hermione was flustered, her voice got shrill. Harry could hear her easily. He was glad Dudley was out with his friends; for once, the Dursleys’ television set was silent.

“I’m Hermione Granger! I’m a—a friend of—can I speak to Harry, please?”

“How do you know Harry?” Aunt Petunia demanded, her eye narrow. Petunia Dursley was one of the most suspicious people Harry had ever met. Hermione would have to make up a very good story to fool his nosy aunt. Harry crossed his fingers.

“I—er—we went to school together.”

“You go to that—that—that _place?_ ” Aunt Petunia shrieked.

“Oh no, I mean, I know him from, er—primary school, not Hogwarts—! Oh dear. I mean—!”

“How dare you call here! This is a normal, respectable house, and I will have none of your—your _nonsense_ here! Never contact us again! I will call the police!”

Petunia slammed the receiver back onto the telephone as if dropping a poisonous spider.

The fight that followed had been one of the worst ever.

“HOW DARE YOU GIVE THIS NUMBER TO PEOPLE LIKE—PEOPLE LIKE _YOU!_ ” Aunt Petunia had shrieked, her horsey face red. “I suppose you think it’d be funny if the neighbors found out what you are! What if one of those—one of those _people_ comes to the house—AGAIN?”

Harry had been locked in his bedroom at the start of school last year, and his best friend’s father had come looking for him. The Dursleys still hadn’t gotten over the visit: Lucius Malfoy was a tall, pale man with a sharp face, blond hair, and a habit of getting what he wanted. Rich and influential, he would have been exactly the sort of person the Dursleys idolized, if it weren’t for the inconvenient fact that he was also a wizard. He also dressed like one at all times, even when making calls on Muggle homes.

The Dursleys had been torn between their instinctive urge to ingratiate themselves with wealthy and powerful people, and their deeply ingrained fear of magic and everything to do with it. Nothing scared them more than the thought that Harry’s secret abnormality might be discovered, and their family made into a subject of gossip. That was why Harry had never been allowed to let his pet owl, Hedwig, out of her cage before. Owls were how wizards and witches wrote to one another: the birds carried letters, like small feathered postmen.

The Dursleys hadn’t been pleased to receive a letter by owl post from Mr. Malfoy at the start of the summer. Harry’s friend Draco had promised that his father would make the Dursleys let Harry send letters over the holidays. Harry never got a chance to see what Mr. Malfoy wrote, because Uncle Vernon went very red in the face and tore the letter up into tiny bits, but it worked: As long as Harry promised to only let Hedwig out at night, when no one could see her, he was allowed to write to his friends.

Hedwig was almost as happy as Harry that Mr. Malfoy had bullied the Dursleys into letting her go flying. She didn’t like being cooped up in her cage, but she seemed to love delivering letters. For Harry it wasn’t as good as seeing his friends, or even talking to them on the phone, but at least he could contact them which meant this summer was a lot better than the last one, even if he did have to do his homework under the sheets.

Harry finished writing about the scant list of murdered wizards and witches and paused to listen again. The silence in the dark house was broken only by the distant, grumbling snores of his enourmous cousin, Dudley. _It must be very late_ , Harry thought. His eyes were itching with tiredness. Perhaps he’d finish this essay tomorrow night....

He clicked his pen closed; pulled an old pillowcase from under his bed; put the flashlight, _A History of Magic_ , his essay, pen, and notebook inside it; got out of bed; and hid the lot under a loose floorboard under his bed. Then he stood up, stretched, and checked the time on the luminous alarm clock on his bedside table.

It was one o’clock in the morning. Harry’s stomach gave a funny jolt. He had been thirteen years old, without realizing it, for a whole hour.

Yet another unusual thing about Harry was how little he looked forward to his birthdays. He had never received a birthday card in his life. The Dursleys had completely ignored his last two birthdays, and he had no reason to suppose they would remember this one.

Harry walked across the dark room, past Hedwig’s large, empty cage, to the open window. He leaned on the sill, the cool night air pleasant on his face after a long time under the blankets. Hedwig had been absent for two nights now. Harry wasn’t worried about her: she’d been gone this long before. But he hoped she’d be back soon—she was the only living creature in this house who didn’t flinch at the sight of him.

Harry, though still rather small and skinny for his age, had grown a few inches over the last year. His jet-black hair, however, was just as it had always been—stubbornly untidy, whatever he did to it. The eyes behind his glasses were bright green, and on his forehead, clearly visible through his hair, was a thin scar, shaped like a bolt of lightning.

Of all the unusual things about Harry, this scar was the most extraordinary of all. It was not, as the Dursleys had pretended for ten years, a souvenier of the car crash that had killed Harry’s parents, because Lily and James Potter had not died in a car crash. They had been murdered, murdered by the most feared Dark wizard for a hundred years, Lord Voldemort. Harry had escaped from the same attack with nothing more than a scar on his forehead, where Voldemort’s curse, instead of killing him, had rebounded upon its originator. Barely alive, Voldemort had fled....

But Harry had come face-to-face with him at Hogwarts last year. Remembering his meeting with the teenaged memory of the Dark Lord, Harry had to admit that he was lucky even to have reached his thirteenth birthday.

He scanned the starry sky for a sign of Hedwig, perhaps soaring back to him with a dead mouse dangling from her beak, expecting praise. Gazing absently over the rooftops, Harry noticed a distant winged shape, and he smiled.

Silhouetted against the golden moon, and growing larger every moment, was an owl—but not, Harry saw as it soared over one of the street lamps of Privet Drive, Hedwig. This owl had a large package tied to its legs. Harry quickly stepped aside to let the unfamiliar owl fly through the window. The owl soared in and landed with a soft _flump_ on Harry’s bed.

It was a handsome, tawny owl, and while Harry didn’t think he had ever seen it before, he knew at once where it had come from, because in addition to the package, it was carrying a letter bearing the Hogwarts crest. When Harry relieved the owl of its burden, it ruffled its feathers importantly, stretched its wings, and took off through the window into the night.

Harry sat down on the bed, but before he could open the package, another owl soared through his window. This was a large eagle owl, and one that Harry recognized immediately: Bowman, his best friend Draco Malfoy’s owl. Bowman, too, was carrying a package, and he landed with great dignity at Harry’s side. Harry put down the package in his hands and hurried to relieve Bowman of his burden. The owl hooted proudly, then flew across the room to Hedwig’s cage where he helped himself to some water.

Harry put the new package aside and lifted up the envelope that had come with it, but before he could do more than notice the big green wax seal with the Malfoy crest, a third bird soared through his window.

This one was white, with speckled spots on her wings, and she was smaller than the eagle owl but, Harry thought privately, even prettier. Hedwig was also carrying a parcel and looked extremely pleased with herself. She landed next to Harry on the bed, and he ruffled the feathers on her head before untying her package. She gave Harry an affectionate nip with her beak as he removed her burden, a box wrapped in butcher’s paper and addressed in Hermione’s neat handwriting, then Hedwig flew across the room to join Bowman.

Harry looked down at his bed, at the three envelopes and three packages lying on his rumpled blankets, and he grinned. He reached for the one from Draco first, ripped off the brown paper, and discovered a present wrapped in silver paper, and his first ever birthday card. Fingers trembling slightly, Harry broke the green seal and drew out the card.

> _Dear Harry,_
> 
> _Happy birthday! This better not get to you late, I had to send it all the way from Austria, but I’m sure I left Bowman enough time. If not, well, sorry to miss your birthday. Feel free to pretend that I didn’t!_
> 
> _I hope you’ve got something nasty planned for the Muggles to celebrate. If you need any ideas, let me know, I’d be happy to help._
> 
> _This should help, too, although not with the Muggles but with something far more important: we can’t have you blind on the Quidditch pitch! You might be almost as bad a Seeker as Weasley then, and your glasses seem to have a habit of cracking. You should look into getting those charmed._

Harry laughed, and quickly tore the wrapping off his present. He opened the rich leather case and drew out a pair of the most beautiful goggles he had ever seen. They were soft black leather, with shiny metal fittings, and had clearly been designed for flying.

Apart from his friends, the thing that Harry missed most about Hogwarts was Quidditch, the most popular sport in the magical world—highly dangerous, very exciting, and played on broomsticks. Harry happened to be a very good Quidditch player; he flew Seeker for his house team. Considering that Draco was also on the team, but as a reserve member who only got to play if Harry was too sick or injured, Harry knew the goggles were a very generous gift, and not because they looked expensive.

He looked back at the card and read the rest of Draco’s note:

> _We’ll be back from our trip the week after next. Any chance you can get the Muggles to let you come stay for a visit? I can always get father to convince them in person!_
> 
> _Seavas pfiati! (That’s goodbye in Austrian, you know)_
> 
> _—_ _Draco_
> 
> _P.S. Put your glasses against the lenses of the goggles, and tap the metals bits on the sides with your wand three times. Then you’ll be able to see the Snitch without looking so specky. Shouldn’t alert the Ministry since the spell’s laid into the goggles and all you have to do is trigger it, but if it does, just tell them father will sort it out for you when we get back!_

Harry pulled off his glasses, fitted them carefully inside the goggles so that the two sets of lenses touched, and drew his wand. Holding his breath, hoping that he wasn’t about to ruin the beautiful goggles—or get a letter of reprimand from the Ministry of Magic—Harry tapped the silvery fittings. The lenses glowed faintly for a moment, but nothing else happened. Harry pulled the goggles over his head and adjusted the strap in the back so that they fit snugly, then he looked around. He grinned when he realized that everything was as clear as if he wore his regular glasses.

“Brilliant!” Harry said aloud.

Still grinning, and wearing his new goggles, he moved on to the second package, the one from Hermione. Along with the wrapped present and card, there was also a letter in Hermione’s tidy handwriting.

> _Dear Harry,_
> 
> _I thought about trying to call again to wish you a happy birthday, but I didn’t want to get you in any more trouble, and anyway I’m out of the country right now so I’d have to wait until I got back, and then it will be nearly time for school to start again, so I decided it was probably best if I didn’t bother. Is your aunt still unhappy with me? Please tell her again how sorry I am about that—or maybe you’d better just not mention it._
> 
> _I’m on holiday in France at the moment and I didn’t know how I was going to send this to you—what if they’d opened it at customs?—but then Hedwig turned up! I think she wanted to make sure you got something for your birthday for a change. I bought your present by owl-order; there was an advertisement in the_ Daily Prophet _(I’ve been getting it delivered; it’s so good to keep up with what’s going on in the wizarding world). Did you see that picture of the Weasleys a week ago? They’re in Egypt, I bet Ron’s learning loads. I’m really jealous—the ancient Egyptian wizards were fascinating._
> 
> _There’s some interesting local history of witchcraft here, too. I’ve rewritten my whole History of Magic essay to include some of the things I’ve found out. I hope it’s not too long—it’s two rolls of parchment more than Professor Binns asked for._
> 
> _I’m going to be in Wizarding London the last week of the holidays with a few friends. Can you make it? Will your aunt and uncle let you come? It would be great to see you outside of school a bit, and I think you’d like Neville and Ron if you got to meet them properly without all the rubbish of school competition and things. I really hope you can. If not, I’ll see you on the Hogwarts Express on September first!_
> 
> _Love from_
> 
> _\-- Hermione_
> 
> _P.S. I heard that Percy Weasley is Head Boy this year. Do you know who Head Girl is?_

Harry put Hermione’s letter aside and picked up her present. It was very heavy. Knowing Hermione, he was sure it would be a large book full of very difficult spells—but it wasn’t. His heart gave a huge bound as he ripped back the paper and saw a sleek black leather case, larger than the one from Draco, with silver words stamped across it, reading _Broomstick Servicing Kit_.

“Wow, Hermione!” Harry whispered, unzipping the case to look inside.

There was a large jar of Fleetwood’s High-Finish Handle Polish, a pair of gleaming silver Tail-Twig Clippers, a tiny brass compass to clip on your broom for long journeys, and a _Handbook of Do-It-Yourself Broomcare_.

One of Harry’s most prized possessions was his Nimbus Two Thousand and One racing broom. He always took good care of his sleek broomstick, but Hermione’s present would let him tend it until it looked better than new. Harry shook his head, smiling at the present. He had a feeling that Hermione still felt guilty that she had thought Harry was responsible for terrorizing the school last year, and this beautiful broomstick care kit was her way of apologizing.

Harry was more than willing to accept it.

He put the leather case aside and picked up his last parcel. He recognized the untidy scrawl on the brown paper at once: this was from Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper. He tore off the top layer of paper and glimpsed something green and leathery, but before he could unwrap it properly, the parcel gave a strange quiver, and whatever was inside it snapped loudly—as though it had jaws.

Harry froze. He knew that Hagrid would never send him anything dangerous on purpose, but then, Hagrid didn’t have a normal persons’s view of what was dangerous. Hagrid had been known to wax sentimental about Manticores, buy vicious, three-headed dogs from men in pubs, and sneak illegal dragon eggs into his cabin.

Harry poked the parcel nervously. It snapped loudly again. Harry reached for the lamp on his bedside table, gripped it firmly in one hand, and raised it over his head, ready to strike. Then he seized the rest of the wrapping paper in his other hand and pulled.

And out fell—a book. Harry just had time to register its handsome green cover, emblazoned with the golden title _The Monster Book of Monsters_ , before it flipped onto its edge and scuttled sideways along the bed like some weird crab.

“Uh-oh,” Harry muttered.

The book toppled off the bed with a loud clunk and shuffled rapidly across the room. Harry followed it stealthily. The book was hiding in the dark space under his desk. Praying that the Dursleys were still fast asleep, Harry got down on his hands and knees and reached toward it.

“Ouch!”

The book snapped shut on his hand and then flapped past him, still scuttling on its covers. Harry scrambled around, threw himself forward, and managed to flatten it. Uncle Vernon gave a loud, sleepy grunt in the room next door.

Hedwig and Bowman watched interestedly as Harry clamped the struggling book tightly in his arms, hurried to his chest of drawers, and pulled out a belt, which he buckled tightly around it. The _Monster Book_ shuddered angrily, but could no longer flap and snap, so Harry threw it down on the bed and reached for Hagrid’s card.

> _Dear Harry,_
> 
> _Happy birthday!_
> 
> _Think you might find this useful for next year. Won’t say no more here. Tell you when I see you._
> 
> _Hope the Muggles are treating you right._
> 
> _All the best,_
> 
> _Hagrid_

It struck Harry as ominous that Hagrid thought a biting book would come in useful, but he put Hagrid’s card up next to Draco’s and Hermione’s, grinning more broadly than ever. Now there was only the letter from Hogwarts left.

Noticing that it was rather thicker than usual, Harry slit open the envelope, pulled out the first page of parchment within, and read:

> _Dear Mr. Potter,_
> 
> _Please note that the new school year will begin on September the first. The Hogwarts Express will leave from King’s Cross station, platform nine and three-quarters, at eleven o’clock._
> 
> _Third years are permitted to visit the village of Hogsmede on certain weekends. Please give the enclosed permission form to your parent or guardian to sign._
> 
> _A list of books for next year is enclosed._
> 
> _Yours sincerely,_
> 
> _Professor M. McGonagall_
> 
> _Deputy Headmistress_

Harry pulled out the Hogsmede permission form and looked at it, no longer grinning. It would be wonderful to visit Hogsmede on weekends; he knew it was an entirely wizarding village, and he had only briefly set foot there once before, at night, when Mr. Malfoy had rescued him from the Dursleys, and Harry had been too rattled to pay attention at the time. But how on earth was he going to persuade Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia to sign the form?

He looked over at the alarm clock. It was now two o’clock in the morning.

Deciding that he’d worry about the Hogsmede form when he woke up, Harry got back into bed and reached up to cross off another day on the chart he’d made for himself, counting down the days left until his return to Hogwarts. Then he took off his goggles and gave them an unnecessary polish with the cloth that had been in their case before he put it all away. Harry lay down, eyes open, facing his three birthday cards.

Extremely unusual though he was, at that moment Harry Potter felt just like everyone else—glad, for the first time in his life, that it was his birthday.


	2. Aunt Marge's Big Mistake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter begins with a rather long except from the book, beginning on page sixteen of the American hardcover version, although you will note there have been some minor changes to the original text. Then I skip over a bit—the entire passage between Aunt Marge’s arrival on page twenty-two to the last day of her visit, on page twenty-six, where the story resumes with a brief summary of Harry’s last night at Privet Drive. If you wish to jump ahead straight to that part, skim down to the section break, and pick up the story there. 
> 
> This was really the only way to make this chapter work at all, and I appreciate your patience. If you like you could even skip reading this chapter altogether; I didn’t feel that I could leave it out without it making things awkward, but it’s largely unchanged from the original version so if you don’t feel like reading through it again, don’t worry that you’ll be missing much. I apologize for what must be a rather disappointing update, and promise to post the next one promptly in recompense.

Harry went down to breakfast the next morning to find the three Dursleys already sitting around the kitchen table. They were watching a brand-new television, a welcome-home-for-the-summer present for Dudley, who had been complaining loudly about the long walk between the fridge and the television in the living room. Dudley had spent most of the summer in the kitchen, his piggy little eyes fixed on the screen and his five chins wobbling as he ate continually.

Harry sat down between Dudley and Uncle Vernon, a large, beefy man with very little neck and a lot of mustache. Far from wishing Harry a happy birthday, none of the Dursleys made any sign that they had noticed Harry enter the room, but Harry was far too used to this to care. He helped himself to a piece of toast and then looked up at the reporter on the television, who was halfway through a report on an escaped convict:

“...The public is warned that Black is armed and extremely dangerous. A special hot line has been set up, and any sighting of Black should be reported immediately.”

“No need to tell us _he’s_ no good,” snorted Uncle Vernon, staring over the top of his newspaper at the prisoner. “Look at the state of him, the filthy layabout! Look at his hair!”

He shot a nasty look sideways at Harry, whose untidy hair had always been a source of great annoyance to Uncle Vernon. Compared to the man on the television, however, whose gaunt face was surrounded by a matted, elbow-length tangle, Harry felt very well groomed indeed.

The reporter had reappeared.

“The Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries will announce today—”

“Hang on!” barked Uncle Vernon, staring furiously at the reporter. “You didn’t tell us where that maniac’s escaped from! What use is that? Lunatic could be coming up the street right now!”

Aunt Petunia, who was bony and horse-faced, whipped around and peered intently out of the kitchen window. Harry knew Aunt Petunia would simply love to be the one to call the hot line number. She was the nosiest woman in the world and spent most of her life spying on the boring, law-abiding neighbors.

“When will they _learn_ ,” said Uncle Vernon, pounding the table with his large purple fist, “that hanging’s the only way to deal with these people?”

“Very true,” said Aunt Petunia, who was still squinting into next door’s runner beans.

Uncle Vernon drained his teacup, glanced at his watch, and added, “I’d better be off in a minute, Petunia. Marge’s train gets in at ten.”

Harry, whose thoughts had been upstairs with his new Quidditch gear, was brought back to earth with an unpleasant bump.

“Aunt Marge?” he blurted out. “Sh— _she’s_ not coming here, is she?”

Aunt Marge was Uncle Vernon’s sister. Even though she was not a blood relative of Harry’s (whose mother had been Aunt Petunia’s sister), he had been forced to call her “Aunt” all his life. Aunt Marge lived in the country, in a house with a large garden, where she bred bulldogs. She didn’t often stay at Privet Drive, because she couldn’t bear to leave her precious dogs, but each of her visits stood out horribly in Harry’s mind.

At Dudley’s fifth birthday party, Aunt Marge had whacked Harry around the shins with her walking stick to stop him from beating Dudley at musical statues. A few years later, she had turned up at Christmas with a computerized robot for Dudley and a box of dog biscuits for Harry. On her last visit, the year before Harry started at Hogwarts, Harry had accidentally trodden on the tail of her favorite dog. Ripper had chased Harry out into the garden and up a tree, and Aunt Marge had refused to call him off until past midnight. The memory of the incident still brought tears of laughter to Dudley’s eyes.

“Marge’ll be here for a week,” Uncle Vernon snarled, “and while we’re on the subject” —he pointed a fat finger threateningly at Harry— “we need to get a few things straight before I go and collect her.”

Dudley smirked and withdrew his gaze from the television. Watching Harry being bullied by Uncle Vernon was Dudley’s favorite form of entertainment.

“Firstly,” growled Uncle Vernon, “you’ll keep a civil tongue in your head when you’re talking to Marge.”

“All right,” said Harry bitterly, “if she does when she’s talking to me.”

“Secondly,” said Uncle Vernon, acting as though he had not heard Harry’s reply, “as Marge doesn’t know anything about your _abnormality_ , I don’t want any—any _funny_ stuff while she’s here. You behave yourself, got me? ”

“I will if she does,” said Harry through gritted teeth.

“Thirdly,” said Uncle Vernon, sweating, “you will lock that damned owl back up. You can write to your—to your weird friends _after_ Marge leaves. But I won’t have any _birds_ flying around this week.”

“Fine,” Harry snarled, “but I can’t exactly stop them writing to _me_. You didn’t give me enough time to tell them not to.”

“Finally,” Uncle Vernon said, his mean little eyes now slits in his great purple face, “we’ve told Marge you attend St. Brutus’s Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys.”

“ _What?_ ” Harry yelled.

“And you’ll be sticking to that story, boy, or there’ll be trouble,” spat Uncle Vernon.

Harry sat there, white-faced and furious, staring at Uncle Vernon, hardly able to believe it. Aunt Marge coming for a week-long visit—it was the worst birthday present the Dursleys had ever given him, including that pair of Uncle Vernon’s old socks.

“Well, Petunia,” said Uncle Vernon, getting heavily to his feet, “I’ll be off to the station, then. Want to come along for the ride, Dudders?”

“No,” said Dudley, whose attention had returned to the television now that Uncle Vernon had finished threatening Harry.

“Duddy’s got to make himself smart for his auntie,” said Aunt Petunia, smoothing Dudley’s thick blond hair. “Mummy’s bought him a lovely new bow tie.”

Uncle Vernon clapped Dudley on his porky shoulder.

“See you in a bit, then,” he said, and he left the kitchen.

Harry, who had been sitting in a kind of horrified trance, had a sudden idea. Abandoning his toast, he got quickly to his feet and followed Uncle Vernon to the front door.

Uncle Vernon was pulling on his car coat.

“I’m not taking _you_ ,” he snarled as he turned to see Harry watching him.

“Like I wanted to come,” said Harry coldly. “I want to ask you something.”

Uncle Vernon eyed him suspiciously.

“Third years at Hog—at my school are allowed to visit the village sometimes,” said Harry.

“So?” snapped Uncle Vernon, taking his car keys from a hook next to the door.

“I need you to sign the permission form,” said Harry in a rush.

“And why should I do that?” sneered Uncle Vernon.

“Well,” said Harry, choosing his next words carefully, “it’ll be hard work, pretending to Aunt Marge that I go to St. Whatsits—”

“St. Brutus’s Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys!” bellowed Uncle Vernon, and Harry was pleased to hear a definite note of panic in Uncle Vernon’s voice.

“Exactly,” said Harry, looking calmly up into Uncle Vernon’s large, purple face. “It’s a lot to remember. I’ll have to make it sound convincing, won’t I? What if I accidentally let something slip?”

“ _You’ll get the stuffing knocked out of you, won’t you?_ ” roared Uncle Vernon, advancing on Harry with his fist raised. But Harry stood his ground. After Tom Riddle, Uncle Vernon didn’t seem very threatening. Besides, Harry had learned from his friends that no matter how big the people with the heavy fists were, it was the one with brains behind them that was the reason people were scared—and Uncle Vernon didn’t have a Draco Malfoy around to tell him what to do.

“Knocking the stuffing out of me won’t make Aunt Marge forget what I could tell her,” Harry said with a grim smile. “There’s all sorts of things I could say...things I could _do_...” Harry didn’t draw his wand, but he waggled his fingers, like a street magician about to do a card trick.

Uncle Vernon stopped, his fist still raised, his face paling.

“But if you sign my permission form,” Harry went on quickly, “I swear I’ll remember where I’m supposed to go to school, and I’ll act like a Mug—like I’m normal and everything. But if you _don’t_...”

Harry could tell that Uncle Vernon was thinking it over, even if his teeth were bared and a vein was throbbing in his temple.

“Right,” he snapped finally; his gruff voice shook a little, and Harry smiled. “I shall monitor your behavior carefully during Marge’s visit. If, at the end of it, you’ve toed the line and kept to the story, I’ll sign your ruddy form.”

“That’s not good enough,” Harry said sharply.

Uncle Vernon’s face turned scarlet. “WHAT?” he roared.

“How do I know you’ll keep your word?” Harry said coldly. “You lied to me about my parents, about Hogwarts, about magic, all my life. You sign the form now, or I’ll tell Aunt Marge everything.”

“You’ll behave, and then I’ll sign the ruddy form!” Uncle Vernon bellowed, his mustache bristling. Spittle flecked Harry’s glasses.

“We’ll compromise,” Harry said, refusing to back down. “You sign the form now, but you get to keep it until Aunt Marge leaves. How’s that?”

The vein in Uncle Vernon’s temple throbbed so hard it looked like it was about to burst. Harry found himself staring at the violent pulse with interest, wondering what would happen if it did. Finally Uncle Vernon snapped, “RIGHT! GIVE ME THE DAMN FORM THEN!”

Harry sprinted upstairs to his bedroom. He knocked everything off his dresser in his haste to grab the form and left the mess on the floor where it landed. He took the stairs three at a time and skidded to a halt, panting, in front of Uncle Vernon. He held out the permission form.

Looking like he had just swallowed an entire bottle of hot sauce, Uncle Vernon yanked a pen from the jacket of his coat and stabbed the parchment with it. The pen tore the thick paper, but Harry didn’t think that would stop Professor McGonagall from accepting the scrawled signature. Uncle Vernon crumpled the form into a tight little ball and shoved it into his coat pocket.

Without another word he wheeled around, pulled open the front door, and slammed it so hard behind him that one of the little panes of glass at the top fell out.

Harry didn’t return to the kitchen. He went back upstairs to his bedroom. If he was going to act like a real Muggle, he’d better start now. With a feeling of grim victory, he gathered up his fallen cards and all his presents, and hid them under the loose floorboard with his homework. Then he went to Hedwig’s cage. Bowman was already gone but Hedwig was still there, asleep, her head tucked under her wing. Harry sighed, then poked his owl awake.

“Hedwig,” he said gloomily, “you’re going to have to clear off for a week. Go to the Malfoys—they’re in Austria. Draco will look after you. I’ll write him a note, explaining. And don’t look at me like that” —Hedwig’s large amber eyes were resentful— “it’s not my fault. Better than staying here in a cage the whole time, right? Those are your options. It’s the only way I’ll be allowed to visit Hogsmeade with my friends.”

Ten minutes later, Hedwig (with a note to Draco bound to her leg) soared out of the window and out of sight. Harry, now feeling thoroughly alone, put the empty cage away inside the wardrobe.

 

 

Aunt Marge immediately made herself at home, much to Harry’s dismay. He made it through the week of insults by focusing on Hogsmeade and imaging horrible curses that he would cast on Aunt Marge if only he could get away with it, and when the final dinner of Marge’s visit finally arrived, Harry thought he had managed quite well. He grinned to himself while the others indulged in pie and brandy, but then Aunt Marge’s beady little eyes fixed on Harry.

When she started in on his parents, it was too much for him to take. Despite Uncle Vernon’s best efforts to get Harry out of the room, he found himself on his feet yelling at Aunt Marge, ready to tell her everything if it would only shut her up and teach her a lesson. If he hadn’t had his wand packed away in his room, he’d have drawn it, and jinxed her right in her red face. Without it, Harry was restricted to shouting, and he did so vehemently:

“Yeah I’m proud of my parents,” he bellowed, “and it’s Muggles like you who should be grateful! They were heroes, and if not for them, Lord Voldemort would have killed you all—and personally, I’d let him!”

“You ridiculous, horrible little boy!” Aunt Marge screamed. “You’re a lying, insolent—”

And then she started to swell. She went up like a hideous great balloon, and Harry tore out of the room. He ran for the cupboard under the stairs. The cupboard door burst magically open as he reached it. In seconds, he had heaved his trunk to the front door. He sprinted upstairs and threw himself under the bed, wrenching up the loose floorboard, and grabbed the pillowcase full of his books and birthday presents. He wriggled out, seized Hedwig’s empty cage, and dashed back downstairs to his old cupboard, just as Uncle Vernon burst out of the dining room, his trouser leg in bloody tatters where Ripper had bitten him.

“COME BACK IN HERE!” he bellowed. “COME BACK AND PUT HER RIGHT!”

But a reckless rage had come over Harry. He pulled his wand out of the pillowcase and crammed everything else one-handed into his trunk while he pointed the wand at Uncle Vernon with the other.

“She deserved it,” Harry said, breathing very fast. “She deserved what she got, and you deserve worse, and I’ll give it to you if you try and stop me. Just see if I don’t.”

He fumbled behind him for the latch on the door.

“I’m going,” said Harry. “I’ve had enough.”

And in the next moment, he was out in the dark, quiet street, heaving his heavy trunk behind him, Hedwig’s cage under his arm.


	3. The Knight Bus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter starts with a slightly-modified excerpt from the book (running from page thirty-one of the American hardcover version to page thirty-four), then jumps ahead to Harry’s arrival at the Leaky Cauldron on page forty-one.

Harry was several streets away before he collapsed onto a low wall in Magnolia Crescent, panting from the effort of dragging his trunk. He sat quite still, anger still surging through him, listening to the frantic thumping of his heart.

But after ten minutes alone in the dark street, a new emotion overtook him: panic. Whichever way he looked at it, he had never been in a worse fix. He was stranded, quite alone, in the dark Muggle world, with absolutely nowhere to go. And the worst of it was, he’d just done serious magic, which meant that he was almost certainly expelled from Hogwarts. He had broken the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry so badly, he was surprised Ministry of Magic representatives weren’t swooping down on him where he sat.

Harry shivered and looked up and down Magnolia Crescent. What was going to happen to him? Would he be arrested, or would he simply be outlawed from the wizarding world? He thought of Draco and Hermione, and his heart sank even lower. He was sure that Draco would be able to convince his father to help Harry, but with Hedwig gone he had no means of contacting the Malfoys.

He didn’t have any Muggle money, either. There was a little wizard gold in the money bag at the bottom of his trunk, but the rest of the fortune his parents had left him was stored in a vault at Gringotts Wizarding Bank in London. He’d never be able to drag his trunk all the way to London. Unless...

He looked down at his wand, which he was still clutching in his hand. If he was already expelled (his heart was now thumping painfully fast), a bit more magic couldn’t hurt. He had the Invisibility Cloak he had inherited from his father—what if he bewitched the trunk to make it feather-light, tied it to his broomstick, covered himself in the cloak, and flew to London? Then he could get the rest of his money out of his vault, send a letter to Draco, and find out if Mr. Malfoy could do anything to help him.

Harry knew that Draco’s father had a lot of influence with the Ministry. Whether he had enough to solve the problem of a blown-up aunt Harry didn’t know, but he didn’t have any better options. Hermione was smart, but her parents were Muggle dentists, and Harry’s other friends could barely tell the front of a broomstick from the tail without instruction. The Malfoys were his only hope.

Whatever his chances, he couldn’t sit on this wall forever, or he’d find himself trying to explain to Muggle police why he was out in the dead of night with a trunkful of spellbooks and a broomstick.

Harry opened his trunk again and pushed the jumbled contents aside, looking for the Invisibility Cloak—but before he had found it, he straightened up suddenly, looking around him once more.

A funny prickling on the back of his neck had made Harry feel he was being watched, but the street appeared to be deserted, and no lights shone from any of the large square houses.

He bent over his trunk again, but almost immediately stood up once more, his hand clenched on his wand. He had sensed rather than heard it: someone or something was standing in the narrow gap between the garage and the fence behind him. Harry squinted at the black alleyway. If only it would move, then he’d know whether it was just a stray cat or—something else.

“ _Lumos_ ,” Harry muttered, and a light appeared at the end of his wand, almost dazzling him. He held it high over his head, and the pebble-dashed walls of number two suddenly sparkled; the garage door gleamed, and between them Harry saw, quite distinctly, the hulking outline of something very big, with wide, gleaming eyes.

Harry stepped backward. His legs hit his trunk and he tripped. His wand flew out of his hand as he flung out an arm to break his fall, and he landed, hard, in the gutter—

There was a deafening BANG, and Harry threw up his hands to shield his eyes against a sudden blinding light—

With a yell, he rolled back onto the pavement, just in time. A second later, a gigantic pair of wheels and headlights screeched to a halt exactly where Harry had just been lying. They belonged, as Harry saw when he raised his head, to a triple-decked, violently purple bus, which had appeared out of thin air. Gold lettering over the windshield spelled _The Knight Bus_.

For a split second, Harry wondered if he had been knocked silly by his fall. Then a conductor in a purple uniform leapt out of the bus and began to speak loudly to the night.

“Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Just stick out your wand hand, step on board, and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be your conductor this eve—”

The conductor stopped abruptly. He had just caught sight of Harry, who was still sitting on the ground. Harry snatched up his wand again and scrambled to his feet. Close up, he saw that Stan Shunpike was only a few years older than he was, eighteen or nineteen at most, with large, protruding ears and quite a few pimples.

“What were you doin’ down there?” said Stan, dropping his professional manner.

“Fell over,” said Harry.

“’Choo fall over for?” sniggered Stan.

“It wasn’t my fault,” said Harry, annoyed. “Your driver should get his eyes checked, you almost ran me over.” One of the knees in his jeans was torn, and the hand he had thrown out to break his fall was bleeding. He suddenly remembered why he had fallen over and turned around quickly to stare at the alleyway between the garage and fence. The Knight Bus’s headlamps were flooding it with light, and it was empty.

“’Choo lookin’ at?” said Stan.

“There was a big black thing,” said Harry, pointing uncertainly into the gap. “Like a dog...but massive...”

He looked around at Stan, whose mouth was slightly open. With a feeling of unease, Harry saw Stan’s eyes move to the scar on Harry’s forehead.

“Woss that on your ‘ead?” said Stan abruptly.

“Nothing,” said Harry quickly, flattening his hair over his scar. If the Ministry of Magic was looking for him, he didn’t want to make it too easy for them.

“Woss your name?” Stan persisted.

“Blaise Zabini,” said Harry, saying the first name that came into his head. Besides, if he was going to be an outlaw, he should use the name of someone he didn’t mind getting into trouble. “So—so this bus,” he went on quickly, hoping to distract Stan, “did you say it goes _anywhere?_ ”

 

Harry wondered why the Knight Bus bothered to have beds. The way it slammed around between places would have made it impossible to sleep, even if Ernie had been a competent driver by normal standards. The jerky ride would have made for a very long night, even if Harry hadn’t been worrying about Azkaban the whole time.

Finally, when Harry was the only passenger left, Stan turned to him.

“Right then, Blaise,” said Stan, clapping his hands, “whereabouts in London?”

“Diagon Alley,” said Harry.

“Righto,” said Stan. “’Old tight, then...”

BANG

They were thundering along Charing Cross Road. Harry sat up and watched buildings and benches squeezing themselves out of the Knight Bus’s way. The sky was getting lighter. He would lie low for a couple of hours, go to Gringotts the moment it opened, then try and sneak into the post office and see if he could send a letter without getting apprehended. Harry wondered if wearing his cloak with the hood pulled up in this warm weather would make him stand out more than his scar. He would have to find somewhere to hide after that, until he heard back from the Malfoys—i _f_ he heard back from them.

Ern slammed on the brakes and the Knight Bus skidded to a halt in front of a small and shabby-looking pub, the Leaky Cauldron, behind which lay the magical entrance to Diagon Alley.

“Thanks,” Harry said to Ern.

He jumped down the steps and waited for Stan to lower his trunk and Hedwig’s cage onto the pavement.

“Well,” said Harry, “’Bye then!”

But Stan wasn’t paying attention. Still standing in the doorway to the bus, he was goggling at the shadowy entrance to the Leaky Cauldron.

“ _There_ you are, Harry,” said a voice.

Before Harry could turn, he felt a hand on his shoulder. At the same time, Stan shouted, “Blimey! Ern, come ‘ere! Come ‘ _ere_!”

Harry looked up at the owner of the hand on his shoulder and felt a bucketful of ice cascade into his stomach—he had walked right into Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic himself.

Stan leapt onto the pavement beside them.

“What didja call Blaise, Minister?” he said excitedly.

Fudge, a portly little man in a long, pinstriped cloak, looked cold and exhausted.

“Blaise?” he repeated, frowning. “This is Harry Potter.”

“I knew it!” Stan shouted gleefully. “Ern! Ern! Guess ‘oo Blaise is, Ern! ‘E’s ‘Arry Potter! I can see ‘is scar!”

“Yes,” said Fudge testily, “well, I’m very glad the Knight Bus picked Harry up, but he and I need to step inside the Leaky Cauldron now...”

Fudge increased the pressure on Harry’s shoulder, and Harry found himself being steered inside the pub. A stooping figure bearing a lantern appeared through the door behind the bar. It was Tom, the wizened, toothless landlord.

“You’ve got him, Minister!” said Tom. “Will you be wanting anything? Beer? Brandy?”

“Perhaps a pot of tea,” said Fudge, who still hadn’t let go of Harry.

There was a loud scraping and puffing from behind them, and Stan and Ern appeared, carrying Harry’s trunk and Hedwig’s cage and looking around excitedly.

“’Ow come you di’n’t tell us ‘oo you are, eh, Blaise?” said Stan, beaming at Harry, while Ernie’s owlish face peered interestedly over Stan’s shoulder.

“And a _private_ parlor, please, Tom,” said Fudge pointedly.

“’Bye,” Harry said miserably to Stan and Ern as Tom beckoned Fudge toward the passage that led from the bar.

“’Bye, Blaise!” called Stan.

Fudge marched Harry along the narrow passage after Tom’s lantern, and then into a small parlor. Tom clicked his fingers, a fire burst into life in the grate, and he bowed himself out of the room.

“Sit down, Harry,” said Fudge, indicating a chair by the fire.

Harry sat down, feeling goose bumps rising up his arms despite the glow of the fire. Fudge took off his pinstriped cloak and tossed it aside, then hitched up the trousers of his bottle-green suit and sat down opposite Harry.

“I am Cornelius Fudge, Harry. The Minister of Magic.”

“I know—er, I mean, I’ve heard a lot about you,” Harry hurried to correct himself. He had seen Fudge once before, but as he had been spying through a window at the time, Fudge wasn’t to know that. “I’m friends with Draco Malfoy, you know his dad, and he’s told me about you of course...it’s really brilliant to meet you at last. I’m honored.” Harry tried an ingratiating smile, and was pleased to see that Fudge looked flattered.

Tom the inkeeper reappeared, wearing an apron over his nightshirt and bearing a tray of tea and crumpets. He placed the tray on a table between Fudge and Harry and left the parlor, closing the door behind him.

“Well, Harry,” said Fudge, pouring out tea, “you’ve had us all in a right flap, I don’t mind telling you. Running away from your aunt and uncle’s house like that! I’d started to think...but you’re safe and that’s what matters.”

Fudge buttered himself a crumpet and pushed the plate toward Harry.

“Eat, Harry, you look dead on your feet. Now then...You will be pleased to hear that we have dealt with the unfortunate blowing-up of Miss Marjorie Dursley. Two members of the Accidental Magic Reversal Department were dispatched to Privet Drive a few hours ago. Miss Dursley has been punctured and her memory has been modified. She has no recollection of the incident at all. So that’s that, and no harm done.”

Fudge smiled at Harry over the rim of his teacup, rather like an uncle surveying a favorite nephew. “No harm done,” Harry repeated blankly. “Do you mean I’m not going to be punished?”

Fudge blinked.

“Punished?”

Harry bit his lip. Was it invoking Mr. Malfoy’s name that had gotten him off the hook, or was this forbearance a benefit of being Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived? “Well,” he said carefully, “I just thought that breaking the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry might mean that I was going to be, er... _fined_ , maybe, or...or something...”

If Fudge hadn’t already thought about the possibility of expelling Harry, then Harry wasn’t going to bring that up.

“Oh, my dear boy, we’re not going to punish you for a little thing like that!” cried Fudge, waving his crumpet impatiently. “It was an accident! We don’t send people to Azkaban just for blowing up their aunts!”

That didn’t tally at all with Harry’s past dealings with the Ministry of Magic, but he decided not to point that out. “Of course not,” Harry said smoothly. “Well, thanks for clearing things up with Aunt Marge, then. I’m sure that was quite a trick.”

“If you’re worried about the reaction of your aunt and uncle,” Fudge said quickly, as if glad to change the subject, “I won’t deny that they are extremely angry, Harry, but they are prepared to take you back next summer as long as you stay at Hogwarts for the Christmas and Easter holidays.”

“That’s fine with me,” Harry said, “I _always_ stay at Hogwarts for the Christmas and Easter holidays, and I don’t ever want to go back to Privet Drive.”

“Now, now, I’m sure you’ll feel differently once you’ve calmed down,” said Fudge in a worried tone. “They are your family, after all, and I’m sure you are fond of each other—er— _very_ deep down.”

Harry snorted, but didn’t bother to put Fudge right. He was too distracted trying to figure out why he wasn’t getting in trouble.

“Well then,” said Fudge, clapping his hands together, “all that remains is to decide where you’re going to spend the last three* weeks of your vacation. I suggest you take a room here at the Leaky Cauldron—”

“I could probably stay at the Malfoys’,” Harry interrupted. “I know they’re on holiday right now, but Draco wanted me to come for a visit when they got back anyway—”

“Oh,” said Fudge, “well, that might be...I mean...best to just wait and see what happens, don’t you think?” He fidgeted uncomfortably with his bowler hat. “As you say, they’re on holiday...I think you should just hire yourself a room here for the duration of your break and, well, if any invitations come up, we’ll work that out then, shall we?

“You’ve had a very stressful night, and I’m sure you’d enjoy a restful holiday. No sense running all over creation when you can be perfectly comfortable right here, hm?”

He smiled nervously at Harry, who nodded. “I guess...” he said.

“Marvelous!” said Fudge. “Now, have a crumpet, Harry, while I go and see if Tom’s got a room for you.”

Fudge strode out of the parlor and Harry stared after him. There was something extremely odd going on. Why had Fudge been waiting for him at the Leaky Cauldron, if not to punish him for what he’d done? And now Harry came to think of it, surely it wasn’t usual for the Minister of Magic _himself_ to get involved in matters of underage magic? It would have been one thing if Fudge had been doing Mr. Malfoy a favor, but Harry hadn’t even had a chance to write to Draco yet and ask his father for help.

Fudge came back, accompanied by Tom the innkeeper.

“Room eleven’s free, Harry,” said Fudge. “I think you’ll be very comfortable. Just one thing, and I’m sure you’ll understand...I don’t want you wandering off into Muggle London, all right? Keep to Diagon Alley. And you’re to be back here before dark each night. And you’ll let my office know before making any—er—other plans, yes? Sure you’ll understand. Tom will be keeping an eye on you for me.”

“Okay,” said Harry slowly, “but why—?”

“Don’t want to lose you again, do we?” said Fudge with a hearty laugh. “No, no...best we know where you are....I mean...”

Fudge cleared his throat loudly and picked up his pinstriped cloak.

“Well, I’ll be off, plenty to do, you know....”

“Have you had any luck with Black yet?” Harry asked.

Fudge’s finger slipped on the silver fastenings of his cloak.

“What’s that? Oh, you’ve heard—well, no, not yet, but it’s only a matter of time. The Azkaban guards have never yet failed...and they are angrier than I’ve ever seen them.”

Fudge shuddered slightly.

“So, I’ll say good-bye.”

He held out his hand and Harry, shaking it, had a sudden idea.

“Er—Minister? Can I ask you something?”

“Certainly,” said Fudge with a smile.

“Well, third years at Hogwarts are allowed to visit Hogsmeade, but I left the permission form with my aunt and uncle, and as I’m not to go out into Muggle London—well, they don’t like owl post and—er—are probably mad at me anyway. I doubt they’d be in the mood to do me any favors by sending it, so...do you think you could maybe write the school a note or something—”

Fudge was looking uncomfortable.

“Ah,” he said. “No, no, I’m very sorry, Harry, but as I’m not your parent or guardian—”

“But you’re the Minister of Magic,” said Harry eagerly. “If you gave me permission—”

“No, I’m sorry, Harry, but rules are rules,” said Fudge flatly, in direct contravention to his previous attitude. “Perhaps you’ll be able to visit Hogsmeade next year. In fact, I think it’s best if you don’t...yes...well, I’ll be off. Enjoy your stay, Harry.”

And with a last smile and shake of Harry’s hand, Fudge left the room. Tom now moved forward, beaming at Harry.

“If you’ll follow me, Mr. Potter,” he said, “I’ve already taken your things up....”

Harry followed Tom up a handsome wooden staircase to a door with a brass number eleven on it, which Tom unlocked and opened for him.

Inside was a very comfortable-looking bed, some highly polished oak furniture, a cheerfully crackling fire and, perched on top of the wardrobe—

“Hedwig!” Harry gasped.

The snowy owl clicked her beak and fluttered down onto Harry’s arm.

“Very smart owl you’ve got there,” chuckled Tom. “Arrived about five minutes after you did. If there’s anything you need, Mr. Potter, don’t hesitate to ask.”

He gave another bow and left.

Harry sat on his bed for a long time, absentmindedly stroking Hedwig. The sky outside the window was changing rapidly from deep, velvety blue to cold, steely gray and then, slowly, to pink shot with gold. Harry could hardly believe that he’d left Privet Drive only a few hours ago, that he wasn’t expelled, and that he was now facing three* completely Dursley-free weeks.

“It’s been a very weird night, Hedwig,” he yawned.

And without even removing his glasses, he slumped back onto his pillows and fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *In the text of the original hardcover book, this is described as two weeks instead of three. However, given the actual dates involved, there really are three weeks in between Aunt Marge’s visit and the start of term and, in June of 2004, JKR issued a correction to the book changing the text to three weeks instead of two. In the interest of accuracy I have chosen to likewise correct the error, despite otherwise quoting from an older edition of the text. I have not chosen to implement most of the other corrections and amendments (for example the alteration of the Accidental Magic Reversal Department to the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad), save for obvious typographical errors, because I cannot be certain of finding all such changes given that I am working from the original text, and I fear that I would only end up contradicting myself by not being consistent. I apologize for any ensuing confusion. Please always check your canon against the source material, not my (or anyone else’s) fanfiction, no matter how accurate it might seem!


	4. The Leaky Cauldron

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter begins with a truncated excerpt, glossing over several pages (forty-nine through fifty-five) before picking up with an altered account of Harry’s last day in Diagon Alley, and a much abbreviated evening. From this point on in the story, we finally get some proper textual changes, although there will as always still be several direct excepts throughout. Thank you for bearing with me.

It took Harry several days to get used to his strange new freedom. Never before had he been able to get up whenever he wanted or eat whatever he fancied. He could even go wherever he pleased, as long as it was in Diagon Alley, and as this long cobbled street was packed with the most fascinating wizarding shops in the world, Harry felt no desire to break his word to Fudge and stray back into the Muggle world.

He spent the long summer days exploring the shops and eating under the brightly colored umbrellas outside cafes, where his fellow diners were showing one another their purchases (“it’s a lunascope, old boy—no more messing around with moon charts, see?”) or else discussing the case of Sirius Black (“personally I won’t let any of the children out alone until he’s back in Azkaban”). Harry could buy his schoolbooks and supplies in person, rather than ordering by owl like he had done last year, and there was no one around to tell him not to waste his time staring at Quality Quidditch Supplies’ new Firebolt every afternoon.

As the days slipped by, Harry started looking wherever he went for a sign of his friends. Hermione had written to Harry to tell him that she would be coming to Diagon Alley soon, but he had had no word at all from Draco despite writing him several times. Harry wondered if the Malfoys’ holiday had gone long and Hedwig was having trouble finding them in Austria, but she never seemed confused when she left to deliver the letters.

Plenty of other Hogwarts students were arriving in Diagon Alley now, with the start of term so near. Harry met Daphne Greengrass in Flourish and Blotts, and was introduced to her little sister, Astoria, who would be starting Hogwarts that year. He joined Gregory Goyle and Vincent Crabbe for afternoon sundaes at Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor, much to the confused delight of Goyle’s mother, who seemed surprised to discover that her son really was friends with “the actual Harry Potter.” He also saw Blaise Zabini—a snobby, elegant boy—walking with a beautiful woman who looked so much like him she had to be his mother. Harry ducked out of sight until they turned down a narrow side-street. Harry hoped that Blaise never found out that Harry had pretended to be him while on the run from the Ministry of Magic. He already disliked Harry, but that might spur him to do more than gripe.

Harry woke on the last day of the holidays, thinking that he would at least see Draco and Hermione tomorrow, on the Hogwarts Express. He got up, dressed, and was on his way to Quality Quidditch Supplies for a last look at the Firebolt when he finally spotted a familiar shade of white-blond hair through the window of Flourish and Blotts. Forgetting about the broomstick, Harry hurried inside and pushed his way through the nervous crowd gawking at the _Monster Book of Monsters_. Draco Malfoy, as pale and thin as ever, stood by himself next to a shelf of books on curses.

“Hello!” Harry said. “How was your holiday? When did you get back? Did you get my letters about how I blew-up my aunt?”

“Oh!” Draco jumped guiltily. “Harry. Hello.” He nervously looked around the shop.

Harry spotted his friend’s parents in conversation with a very old witch wearing a lot of fur near the front counter. “Are your parents with you? Are you having lunch in Diagon Alley?” Harry asked. “Did you get your books yet? Have you seen what we have to read for Care of Magical Creatures? Did you see the Firebolt?”

“Look,” Draco said, “I can’t really talk now, sorry. I’ll see you on the train, okay?”

Without waiting for Harry to answer, he scurried off, ducking his head like he was trying not to be noticed. Harry frowned, confused.

Before he could think of a reason for Draco’s strange behavior, he heard someone else calling his name and turned around.

“Harry! HARRY!”

Hermione was waving to him through the window. Harry waved back and hurried outside to meet her. She looked very brown. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt if you’re getting your books, I just wanted to let you know that I’ve just bought all mine, and I’m heading to Fortescue’s if you want to come along, or meet us there when you’re done—”

“I got all my school stuff last week,” Harry explained. “I’ll go with you.”

“Oh, excellent,” said Hermione, and they set off. “I had to come back and get one of my books, it wouldn’t fit in the bag with the rest and I guess the clerk forgot about it, but I noticed it was missing when I looked through my things. I’m glad now, because otherwise I’m sure I never would have found you. Did you _really_ blow up your aunt?”

“I didn’t mean to,” Harry said, shrugging. “I just—lost control.”

“You’re lucky you weren’t expelled,” Hermione told him tartly.

“I know,” he said. “Forget expelled, I thought I was going to be arrested. I don’t know why Fudge let me off, but I’m not complaining that he did.”

“I suppose not,” Hermione said grudgingly. Harry hid a smile. The Gryffindor girl had a virulent intolerance of rule-breaking and, Harry’s friend or not, part of her was probably outraged that Harry hadn’t been punished for such a flagrant transgression of wizarding law.

“Anyway,” Hermione continued, leading the way to Fortescue’s, “I looked it up, and I don’t think they could have arrested you for it anyway, because you did it wandlessly, and there’s no way you could be expected to be able to perform wandless magic _deliberately_ yet, so it would have been a misdemeanor with community service at worst. Not that you were punished at all but, if they had decided to, they still couldn’t have put you in Azkaban for that. In case you were worried.” Harry opened his mouth to thank Hermione for her research, but she was still talking: “You know Ron Weasley of course,” Hermione said, setting her bag down on a chair that held two others already bulging with books. Her voice had suddenly gone shrill. “Neville couldn’t make it I’m afraid, so it’s just us today.”

Harry paused, halfway into his seat, realizing that Hermione wasn’t sitting alone. A red-haired boy with lots of freckles looked up from his menu. His face went slack at the sight of Harry. Hermione watched the two boys nervously. They stared at each other for a moment, then Harry shrugged and Weasley looked back at the list of ice creams, both coming to the mutual decision to pretend not to recognize one another.

“Hi,” Harry said. Weasley grunted and passed him a menu, which Harry ignored. He had memorized Fortescue’s ice cream list days ago and didn’t hesitate when the cheerful wizard came to take their order. Fortescue greeted Harry like an old friend, earning him a look of respectful envy from Ron Weasley, then bustled off to fetch their ice creams. Harry enthusiastically dug into his despite having eaten a triple-scoop sundae earlier that afternoon.

“Those can’t all be schoolbooks, can they?” Harry asked, pointing at Hermione’s pile of bags.

“Of course they are,” Hermione replied. “Those are my books for Arithmancy, Care of Magical Creatures, Divination, the Study of Ancient Runes, Muggle Studies—”

“What are you doing Muggle Studies for?” Weasley interrupted. “You’re Muggle-born! Your mum and dad are Muggles! You already know all about Muggles!”

“But it’ll be fascinating to study them from the wizarding point of view,” said Hermione earnestly.

“Are you planning to eat or sleep at all this year, Hermione?” asked Harry. Weasley sniggered. Hermione ignored them both.

“I’ve still got ten Galleons,” she said, checking her purse. “It’s my birthday in September, and Mum and Dad gave me some money to get myself an early birthday present.”

“How about a nice _book?_ ” said Weasley innocently. Harry grinned.

“No, I don’t think so,” said Hermione composedly. “I really want an owl. I mean, Harry’s got Hedwig and you’ve got Errol—”

“I haven’t,” Weasley argued. “Errol’s a family owl. All I’ve got is Scabbers.” He pulled a rat out of his pocket. “And I want to get him checked over,” Weasley added, placing the rat on the table in front of them. “I don’t think Egypt agreed with him.”

It was a very sorry looking rat, Harry thought: thin, with drooping whiskers. Harry was glad that Hagrid had given him an owl, and not a rat or a toad. He’d have been too embarrassed to admit to owning a pet like Scabbers, if he was Ron Weasley.

“He does look a bit sickly,” Hermione observed in the silence as the three students stared at Scabbers. Harry thought she was understating the issue and wouldn’t have been surprised if the manky rat dropped dead there on the spot.

“There’s a magical creature shop just over there,” said Harry, who knew Diagon Alley very well by now. “You can get your owl, and Weasley can see if there’s anything they can do for...that.”

So they paid for their ice cream and crossed the street to the Magical Menagerie.

There wasn’t much room inside. Every inch of wall was hidden by cages. It was smelly and very noisy because the occupants of these cages were all squeaking, squawking, jabbering, or hissing. The witch behind the counter was already advising a wizard on the care of double-ended newts, so Harry, Hermione, and Weasley waited, examining the cages.

A pair of enourmous purple toads sat gulping wetly and feasting on dead blowflies. A gigantic tortoise with a jewel-encrusted shell was glittering near the window. Poisonous orange snails were oozing slowly up the side of their glass tank, and a fat white rabbit kept changing into a silk top hat and back again with a loud popping noise. Then there were cats of every color, a noisy cage of ravens, a basket of funny custard-colored furballs that were humming loudly, and on the counter, a vast cage of sleek black rats that were playing some sort of skipping game using their long, bald tails.

The double-ended newt wizard left, and Weasley approached the counter. Harry walked with Hermione over to look at the owls.

“It’s my rat,” he heard Weasley telling the witch at the counter. “He’s been a bit off-color ever since I brought him back from Egypt.”

“Bang him on the counter,” said the witch, pulling a pair of heavy black spectacles out of her pocket.

“What about that one?” Harry asked, pointing to an owl with dark markings around its eyes that reminded Harry of spectacles.

“I don’t know,” said Hermione, “it’s a bit small. What if I wanted to order something heavy?”

“You mean like books?” Harry said, smirking. Hermione ignored him and moved down the row of cages. Harry continued looking at the owls, thinking proudly that none of them were as pretty as Hedwig.

“Hm,” he heard the witch ask Weasley, “how old is this rat?”

“Dunno,” said Weasley. “Quite old. He used to belong to my brother.”

“What powers does he have?”

“Er—” Weasley hesitated, apparently reluctant to answer. Harry walked over to see what was going on, wondering if Weasley was about to confess to something interesting or illegal. Weasley just stood there looking embarrassed. Harry wondered if his pet might actually be nothing more than a plain Muggle rat. The witch at the counter was holding Scabbers up, examining the rat closely. Her eyes moved from the rat’s tattered left ear to his front paw, where there was a toe missing, and she tutted loudly.

“He’s been through the mill, this one,” she said. Harry nodded agreement.

“He was like that when Percy gave him to me,” Weasley said defensively.

“An ordinary common or garden rat like this can’t be expected to live longer than three years or so,” said the witch. “Now, if you were looking for something a bit more hard-wearing, you might like one of these—”

She indicated the black rats, who promptly started skipping again. Weasley muttered, “Show-offs.” Harry snickered, suspecting that Weasley was probably cross because his rat looked like rubbish and he couldn’t afford a better one. Since Hermione was still within hearing distance, though, Harry decided not to say anything.

“Well,” the witch was saying, “if you don’t want a replacement, you can try this rat tonic.” She reached under the counter and brought out a small red bottle.

“Okay,” said Weasley. “How much—OUCH!”

He buckled as something huge and orange came soaring from the top of the highest cage, landed on his head, and then propelled itself, spitting madly, at Weasley’s rat.

“NO, CROOKSHANKS, NO!” cried the witch, but the rat shot from between her hands like a bar of soap, landed splay-legged on the floor, and then scampered for the door.

“Scabbers!” Weasley shouted, racing out of the shop after him. Harry collapsed with laughter against the counter.

“What on earth was that?” Hermione shrieked, running over.

Harry, still laughing too hard to speak, pointed at the thing that had attacked Weasley. It was a large ginger cat, very fluffy, who was now calmly washing its paw and ignoring the skipping black rats next to it. The cat’s face looked grumpy and oddly squashed, as though it had run headlong into a brick wall. Harry knew he would treasure the sight of it landing on Weasley’s head for a long time to come.

“Oh, what a lovely cat,” Hermione said, proving that she had no better taste in ginger felines than she did in ginger wizards. “What’s his name?”

“Crookshanks,” the witch said. She sounded tired. “You want him? He’s been here for ages.”

“Oh...I don’t know,” Hermione hesitated.

The witch nodded. “Didn’t think so,” she said. “No one ever does. Come on, you beast, let’s see how you got out this time...” The witch tried to lift Crookshanks from the counter, but the cat appeared to have gained several stone since sitting down, and she almost fell over before she managed to brace herself enough to lift him.

“Wait,” said Hermione, “hang on, how much do you want for him?”

“What about getting an owl?” Harry asked. “You’re only allowed one pet.”

“Oh, well,” said Hermione, fishing in her purse, “I can always just keep using the school owls, can’t I? And give me the rat tonic too,” she told the witch, “I doubt Ron will remember to come back for it...”

Harry shrugged and stepped back. Crookshanks was already rubbing his squashed face against Hermione’s arms. He was purring so loudly that Harry thought the cat was going to rupture something.

Hermione beamed and picked up her new pet. Crookshanks curled up in her arms, still purring.

Harry looked forward to seeing Weasley’s reaction.

 

Harry felt a little lonely after Hermione left with Weasley (who seemed quite unable to get over the fact that Hermione had bought the cat that had attacked him), but he settled down to his dinner cheerfully enough, knowing that he was going to see all his friends again tomorrow on the Hogwarts Express. For something to do, he read a discarded copy of the _Daily Prophet_ , the whole front page of which was devoted to the ongoing search for escaped murderer Sirius Black.

“Careful, Mr. Potter,” Tom the innkeeper said. “You don’t want to go giving yourself nightmares, reading things like that.”

Harry grinned. “I think I’ll be okay,” he said. “It’s not likely I’ll run into him at Hogwarts anyway, so what have I got to worry about?” Harry laughed. “I’ll stick to nightmares about surprise exams and forgotten homework, thanks.”

“Very sensible,” Tom told him. “And that reminds me. You were out when the messenger came this afternoon, so they asked me to let you know: the Ministry is providing a car to take you to the station tomorrow.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Really?” he said. “I thought I’d just take the Knight Bus again...”

Tom looked furtive and started polishing an already-gleaming pint glass. “It’s no fuss,” he said quickly. “The Minister just wanted to be sure that you got to school all right. He feels responsible for your well being, you see, with you staying here at his request.”

Harry nodded slowly. “That’s nice of him,” he said. He forced a guileless smile for Tom, who sagged with relief and moved away to serve a shrouded hag sitting at the end of the bar, but inside Harry was roiling with suspicion.

He looked down at the newspaper lying open in front of him, and the now-familiar photograph of mad Sirius Black. “The way they’re all ‘looking out for me,’” Harry told the picture sourly, “you’d think I was as dangerous as you are.”

Black did not reply.


	5. The Dementor

Tom woke Harry the next morning with his usual toothless grin and a cup of tea. Harry got dressed and was just persuading a disgruntled Hedwig to get back into her cage when there was another knock on his door, followed by a deep voice saying, “Your car is here, Mr. Potter.”

“Coming!” Harry shut the door on Hedwig and hurried to gather up his things. He clattered down the stairs, his trunk thumping heavily, and found a tall man in a black suit drinking tea at the bar and chatting quietly to Tom. His skin was almost the same shade of light brown as Harry’s but the contrast of his silver goatee made it look much darker. He introduced himself to Harry as Auror Proudfoot, and allowed Harry time for a very quick breakfast before he led him out of the Leaky Cauldron.

Proudfoot looked around cautiously, then escorted Harry across the short stretch of pavement toward an old-fashioned dark green car driven by a furtive-looking wizard wearing a suit of emerald velvet.

“In you get, Mr. Potter,” Proudfoot said, easily lifting Harry’s trunk in after him before he joined the driver in the front seat.

The journey to King’s Cross was very uneventful compared with Harry’s trip on the Knight Bus, but Proudfoot’s watchfulness had Harry growing more nervous with every minute. Surprisingly the Ministry of Magic car seemed almost ordinary, though Harry noticed that it could slide through gaps that Uncle Vernon’s new company car certainly couldn’t have managed. They reached King’s Cross with twenty minutes to spare; the driver found Harry a trolley and unloaded his things onto it, while Proudfoot casually scanned the crowds and rested his hand on his wand.

The Auror kept close to Harry’s elbow all the way into the station.

“What’s going on?” Harry asked his guard.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Proudfoot said smoothly. His black eyes might as well have been jet stones for all they gave away of his feelings.

Harry frowned. “I mean, why are you here? Why do I have a guard? Why did the Ministry send a car for me, why did the Minister of Magic himself come tell me I wasn’t in trouble?”

Proudfoot shook his head. “I couldn’t say,” he replied. “I just do what they tell me.”

Harry scowled. “Am I in some kind of danger?” he asked.

“There’s nothing to fear here,” Proudfoot answered, directing Harry and his trolley toward the barrier between platforms nine and ten.

“Some kind of trouble then,” Harry guessed, but Proudfoot didn’t seem to hear. “Let’s get you to the platform,” he said, suspiciously studying the InterCity 125 that had just arrived at platform nine.

Harry allowed his guard to guide him to the magical barrier, which they leaned against together. In a moment, Harry had fallen through the solid metal onto platform nine and three-quarters and looked up to see the Hogwarts Express, a scarlet steam engine, puffing smoke over a platform packed with witches and wizards seeing their children onto the train.

“I think I can take it from here,” Harry said sourly.

Proudfoot gave Harry a placid smile, white teeth flashing. “I’m to see you onto the train,” he answered.

“If you’re not going to tell me why you’re here, I don’t see why you need to be,” Harry said. Proudfoot’s even smile didn’t flicker. Harry rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he said. “Come on, then.”

Proudfoot helped Harry get his trunk and Hedwig’s cage up onto the Hogwarts Express, then handed Harry a rolled up newspaper. “In case you get bored on the ride,” he said blandly.

“Thanks,” Harry muttered, feeling sulky.

Proudfoot nodded, stepped backward into the crowd, and seemed to vanish from sight. Harry blinked, couldn’t see where he’d gone, and turned around with a shrug. He tucked Hedwig’s cage under his arm and heaved his trunk behind him, setting off down the corridor to look for his friends.

He was almost at the end of the train before he found them: Gregory Goyle, a large boy with short, bristly hair and long, gorilla-ish arms; Vincent Crabbe, as wide and muscly as Goyle but taller, with a pudding-bowl haircut and a very thick neck; and Draco Malfoy. Pale and thin, he looked small and harmless next to the other two, but they wouldn’t have dreamed of trying to push him around. Draco gave the orders, and Crabbe and Goyle followed them.

Harry thought the three of them were the most useful friends a person could have.

He grinned and opened the compartment door. Crabbe and Goyle stood up, Goyle shaking his head and Crabbe folding his arms. They stepped forward as though to block Harry from coming in.

Draco caught Goyle by the sleeve. “Oh sit down,” he said waspishly. “It’s Harry, you idiots, let him in.”

Goyle looked back and forth between Harry and Draco. “But...” he said.

“But what?” Draco snapped. “Get out of the way. Or at least give him a hand with his trunk.”

“I can manage,” Harry said bracingly. Crabbe ignored him, and easily heaved Harry’s heavy trunk up into the luggage rack. Harry shrugged and put Hedwig’s cage up himself, then sat down next to Draco. “So how was your summer?” he asked his friends.

Draco shrugged and muttered something noncommittal; Crabbe and Goyle just grunted.

Harry watched out the window as they pulled away from the platform. “You ever ridden on the Knight Bus?” he asked.

Draco shook his head. “My dad says it’s un-coots,” Crabbe offered.

“I been on it once,” said Goyle. “My mum and I took it to the seaside.”

“Pretty crazy driving, wasn’t it?” Harry said.

“I dunno,” said Goyle, “compared to what?”

Harry shrugged.

He looked through the newspaper Proudfoot had given him. It was folded open to an article on the escaped convict, Sirius Black. Black’s mad face stared up at Harry through its tangle of hair. He looked to be screaming, but of course the photograph carried no sound; Black might have been laughing instead.

“So what do you think about this Sirius Black, then?” Harry said.

Draco twitched. “What do you mean?”

“Well, everyone seems pretty worried about him,” Harry said. “Say, I thought you told me Azkaban was inescapable?”

“It was before,” Draco said tightly. “But apparently not anymore.”

“My mum thinks we’re all going to be murdered in our beds,” Crabbe told them cheerfully.

“Nah,” said Goyle, “he’ll be on the other side of the world by now, if he’s got any brains.”

“What would you know about that?” retorted Draco. Harry and Crabbe snickered.

“Well, the way people have been acting,” Harry said, “I think Fudge might be worried that  _ I’ll  _ be murdering people in their beds.” He went on to tell his friends the story of his ballooning aunt, and the very weird night that had followed. “It’s not usual for the Minister of Magic to get involved in matters of underage magic, is it?” he asked Draco.

“No,” Draco replied hesitantly, “not unless someone with influence asks him, I guess...”

“Right,” said Harry, “but your dad didn’t even know I was in trouble, and I don’t know anyone else with influence. I thought it was weird.”

“A bit,” Draco agreed evasively.

“So do you think I’m in trouble, or something?”

“I thought you said you didn’t get in trouble,” said Crabbe, sounding confused.

“No, I didn’t,” Harry explained, “but then I had people watching me, and an escort to the train, and everything—they were treating me like I was a danger,” he said.

“Or like you were in danger,” Draco muttered.

Harry laughed. “Sure,” he said, “but I don’t think Fudge is scared of my Muggle uncle.”

Draco smiled, then looked quickly away from Harry and out the window again.

“Something interesting out there?” Harry asked.

“What? No.” Draco looked away.

“Well you’ve been staring out there the whole ride,” Harry pointed out. “You’re not afraid of me or anything, are you?” He looked around at his friends. “Because I promise, the only people I’m interested in blowing-up are my Muggle relatives.” He grinned, and Goyle grinned back stupidly. Crabbe just nodded, taking the matter seriously, as he always did when any form of potential violence was discussed. Draco studied the sleeping owls in the luggage rack, and didn’t look at Harry at all.

“Of course we’re not scared of you,” Draco said shortly.

“Then are you mad at me?” Harry asked. “Because I would have come visit, but I never got any letters back, once I started staying at the Leaky Cauldron. They didn’t get lost, did they? Because I really didn’t mean to ignore you...and I’m pretty sure I  _ don’t  _ have a house elf stalking me this year...”

Crabbe and Goyle both laughed, but Draco said nothing.

“What is it?” Harry asked. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Of course not,” said Draco, unconvincingly.

“Then why are you acting like I’m some kind of pariah?”

“What’s a pariah?”

Harry looked at Crabbe. “It’s a—a person that nobody likes, that you’re not supposed to be around.”

Crabbe nodded. “Oh,” he said, “that makes sense.”

“Yeah,” said Goyle, “that’s what it is.”

“What do you mean?” said Harry.

“Draco’s dad told him to stay away from you—”

“Shut-up!” Draco kicked Crabbe in the ankle, but not quickly enough to stop him. Draco’s pointed face flushed pink.

“Your dad told you to stay away from me?” Harry echoed, staring at his friend. “Why, because I got in trouble with the Ministry? Wait, he’s not still mad about the Chamber of Secrets last year, is he?”

Draco shook his head, not meeting Harry’s eyes. “It’s not your fault,” he muttered. “It’s just...dangerous to be around you, father says.”

“Why?”

“Sirius Black.”

Harry frowned. He looked down at the newspaper, where Black continued to leer up out of his photograph, and then back at Draco. “What’s he got to do with anything?”

Draco didn’t answer right away. Harry looked over at Crabbe and Goyle, but they were both resolutely tight-lipped, now that they had been ordered to keep silent. Eventually Draco spoke again, his voice low and reluctant: “They say that’s why he broke out of Azkaban. Sirius Black. He wants to kill you.”

Harry stared. He laughed nervously. “You’re making that up,” he said at last.

Draco shook his head, still looking away from Harry. “That’s the rumor going around the Ministry,” he explained. “Father told me about it a few days after Black broke out. He said he wanted me to stay away from you until Black was caught, because he’s very dangerous, and—and not really the sort to worry about collateral damage. Father’s afraid that if Sirius Black catches you, I’ll be hurt, too.”

Harry felt suddenly very cold. “That’s why Fudge came to meet me, and why I didn’t get in trouble for what I did to my aunt,” he said. “The Ministry was afraid that Black had murdered me, so when I turned up at the Leaky Cauldron, they were so glad I was still alive, they didn’t care. That’s why he made me promise to stay in Diagon Alley, where there were too many wizards and witches around for Black to get to me. That’s what no one wanted to tell me, why they all acted so strange.” He looked down at the newspaper Proudfoot had given him, still folded open to the article on Sirius Black. “That’s why I had an Auror walk me onto the train, and why no one wanted to yell at me for breaking the law.”

Draco nodded miserably. “And why I didn’t write back to your letters,” he said. “Father forbade it. He told me I wasn’t to have anything to do with you, until Black is caught or killed.”

Harry shivered, and rubbed his arms. He looked at Crabbe and Goyle. “What about you?” he asked.

They stared back at him. “Malfoy said to let you in anyway,” Goyle explained. “We thought we were supposed to keep away from you but,” he shrugged, “guess not anymore.”

“So you’re not going to listen to your dad?” Harry asked Draco.

The pale boy squirmed. “Well,” he said defensively, “it’s not like Sirius Black is going to be able to get at you at Hogwarts...and we’ll be in classes and the dormitory together, so I couldn’t very well stay away anyway...it seems silly to try...”

Harry felt something like relief ease the tension in his limbs. He might still be hunted by a murderer, but at least he wasn’t going to be alone. He’d still have his friends.

“Cool,” he said, and couldn’t think what else to say. How do you thank somebody for disobeying their parents to risk being murdered on your behalf? Harry looked out the window a moment himself before he spoke again. “So why does Black want to kill me?” he asked, trying hard to sound casual.

“Well he’s one of the Dark Lord’s old supporters,” Crabbe explained helpfully.

Draco stirred, but stayed silent.

Harry made a face. “Great,” he said. “But why now?”

“Dunno,” said Goyle. “Maybe he couldn’t figure out how to escape before.”

“He’s mad,” Draco said quietly. The others turned to stare at him. “Sirius Black is mad,” Draco repeated. “Most people go mental in Azkaban, they say, because it’s so horrible. But Sirius Black...” Draco hesitated. Harry didn’t speak, not wanting to interrupt. Finally Draco said, very quietly, “We’re related to him. He’s my mother’s cousin. And she says he’s never been exactly...stable.”

“What does that mean?” Harry asked.

“He got kicked out of the family,” Draco said quickly. “He was a miscreant, an embarrassment; brought shame to his parents, that sort of thing. They disowned him in favor of his younger brother.”

“Sirius Black has a brother? I don’t remember reading that...”

“He’s dead,” said Draco. “Regulus Black, he died in the War.”

“Oh,” said Harry. Then, breathlessly, “You don’t think Sirius—?”

“I don’t know,” said Draco, “but I think mother or father would have mentioned fratricide.”

“Fratri-what?” said Goyle.

The others ignored him. “The point is,” Draco said firmly, “Sirius Black is very dangerous, and very much insane, and for...for whatever reason, he’s decided to kill you.”

Harry swallowed hard. “Great,” he said. “So much for a quiet year at school.”

“I’m sure he won’t be able to get in to Hogwarts,” Draco assured him hurriedly. “Everyone says it’s one of the most secure locations in all of Wizarding Britain.”

“I know,” said Harry, “I’m not worried.”

If the others knew he was lying, they were kind enough not to say.

The Hogwarts Express moved steadily north and the scenery outside the window became wilder and darker while the clouds overhead thickened. People were chasing backward and forward past the door of their compartment, but no one came in to bother them. Crabbe and Goyle made for a daunting presence, even engrossed as they were in a furious arm-wrestling contest with one another across the seat.

At one o’clock, the plump witch with the food cart arrived at the compartment door.

Harry sat eating his mound of sweets (a smaller pile than the ones purchased by both Crabbe and Goyle), feeling much better for the Cauldron Cakes and Licorice Wands in his belly, when he suddenly groaned.

“That’s why Fudge wouldn’t write me a note for Hogsmeade,” he realized.

“What are you talking about?” Draco asked.

“I never got my permission slip back from my uncle,” Harry explained, “when I ran away that night. I asked Fudge if he could write me a note but he dodged the question, and said it wouldn’t be proper or something—but it was really because of Sirius Black. I’ll bet even if I had a permission slip, they still wouldn’t let me go to the village.”

Draco made a face, but nodded agreement. “Probably not,” he said glumly. “Too bad, Hogsmeade is supposed to be a pretty nice place.”

“They got Honeydukes there,” said Crabbe, a reverent look on his face. Goyle looked up from a half-eaten chocolate frog, his own eyes bright. “Ooh,” he said, “Honeydukes.”

“What’s that?” said Harry.

“Best sweetshop in England,” Crabbe explained. “They got everything there.”

“Yeah,” said Goyle, “name a candy, they got it at Honeydukes.”

“Acid Pops—Drooble’s Gum—Pepper Imps—Jelly Slugs—Pixie Puffs—Ice Mice—Fudge Flies—Sugar Quills....”

The two of them happily listed off the different types of sweets available at Honeydukes, a litany of memorization that would have astonished their teachers if any of them had been there to hear. Harry grinned, thinking it was a shame there weren’t any classes that studied candy. That was one subject that Crabbe and Goyle would have actually been able to score high marks in.

Midafternoon the rain finally set in, blurring the rolling hills outside the window, and stayed for the day. Draco pulled his cloak out of his trunk and folded it up against the window to keep the draft out while he idly paged through his new schoolbooks (except for the  _ Monster Book of Monsters _ ). Harry, Crabbe, and Goyle played a form of Russian Roulette with the last of the Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans, where they tried to pass off the most disgustingly-colored beans to one another. Draco refused to play after gagging on a blood-flavored bean, but Harry pressed on through stewed cabbage, sweaty socks, and moldy bread.

The rain thickened as the train sped yet farther north; the windows were now a solid, shimmering gray, which gradually darkened until lanterns flickered into life all along the corridors and over the luggage racks. The train rattled, the rain hammered, the wind roared, but Harry still felt cozy, despite the aftertaste of earwax from his final Bertie Botts Bean.

“I hope we get there soon,” he muttered, “I could really use some pumpkin juice. Eugh.”

Crabbe snickered, but Goyle, who was suffering a similar affliction (spoiled milk bean), nodded sympathetically. Harry had just begun to search his pockets for stray sweets when the train started to slow down.

“That was fast,” said Goyle cheerfully.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Draco said, snapping his book shut. “We can’t be there already.”

“We’re definitely stopping, though,” Harry said.

The train was getting slower and slower. As the noise of the pistons fell away, the wind and rain sounded louder than ever against the windows.

Harry, who was nearest the door, got up to look into the corridor. All along the carriage, heads were sticking curiously out of their compartments. He saw Hermione’s bushy head poke out of the very last compartment at the end of the carriage and waved at her, but she ducked back inside without noticing him.

The train came to a stop with a jolt, and distant thuds and bangs told them that luggage had fallen out of the racks. Then, without warning, all the lamps went out and they were plunged into total darkness.

“What’s happening?” said Draco’s voice from behind Harry.

“Why’d you turn off the lights?” Goyle asked.

“That wasn’t me, stupid,” Crabbe retorted. Harry heard the unmistakable sound of shoving.

He felt his way back to his seat.

“The train can’t have broken down...can it?”

“We can’t be stuck here!” Draco complained.

“There’s somethin’ outside,” Crabbe said. “Looks like people are getting on the train.”

“Are they gonna fix it?” Goyle asked. “Will they fix it in time, so we don’t miss the feast?”

“Idiot,” said Draco, “they can’t start the feast until we get there, there’d be no one to eat it.”

“Oh. Well that’s good, then.”

They sat in the darkness for a while. Harry fidgeted with his wand.

“I don’t see why they won’t tell us what’s going on,” he said. “They could make an announcement or something, tell us how long we’re going to be here...”

There was another long silence, broken suddenly be a loud, “OUCH!”

“Sorry!”

“Goyle, you idiot, that was my foot!”

“I thought there was another Chocolate Frog over here...”

“Well there’s not! Go sit down!”

“Oi! Not on me, dummy!”

“Sorry!”

“Oh, this is preposterous.” There was a rustle of cloth, then Draco said, “ _ Lumos! _ ”

A bright globe of light shone from the end of his wand, casting their compartment into stark relief. Harry blinked against the sudden glare and looked around. “Do you think we should do something?” he asked.

“Like what?” Draco sneered. “Do you know how to fix a train?”

“Well, no,” Harry admitted. He settled back in his seat impatiently. Crabbe and Goyle started a subdued shoving match on their bench, probably precipitated by Goyle almost sitting on Crabbe in the dark. Harry was just making his mind up to go and ask Hermione if she knew what was going on, on the basis that she usually knew everything, when the compartment door slid slowly open.

Standing in the doorway, illuminated by the harsh light from Draco’s wand, was a cloaked figure that towered to the ceiling. Its face was completely hidden beneath its hood. Harry’s eyes darted downward, and what he saw made his stomach contract. There was a hand protruding from the cloak and it was glistening, grayish, slimy-looking, and scabbed, like something dead that had decayed in water....

But it was visible only for a split second. As though the creature beneath the cloak sensed Harry’s gaze, the hand was suddenly withdrawn into the folds of its black cloak.

And then the thing beneath the hood, whatever it was, drew a long, slow, rattling breath, as though it were trying to suck something more than air from its surroundings.

An intense cold swept over them all. Harry felt his own breath catch in his chest. The cold went deeper than his skin. It was inside his chest, it was inside his very heart....

Harry’s eyes rolled up into his head. He couldn’t see. He was drowning in cold. There was a rushing in his ears as though of water. He was being dragged downward, the roaring growing louder...

And then, from far away, he heard screaming, terrible, terrified, pleading screams. He wanted to help whoever it was, he tried to move his arms, but couldn’t...a thick white fog was swirling around him, inside him—

“Harry. Harry! Wake up.”

Someone was shaking him.

“W—what?”

Harry opened his eyes; there were lanterns above him, and the floor was shaking—the Hogwarts Express was moving again and the lights had come back on. He seemed to have slid out of his seat onto the floor. A wizard whom Harry didn’t recognize was crouched over him. Draco stood nervously behind the unknown man. Peering over Draco’s shoulder were Crabbe and Goyle, crowded close together on their bench. Harry felt very sick; when he put up his hand to push his glasses back on, he felt cold sweat on his face.

The strange wizard helped Harry up and back onto a seat. He was wearing an extremely shabby set of wizard’s robes that had been darned in several places. Though quite young, his light brown hair was flecked with gray. His face was lined and tired, but his eyes were bright and they fastened on Harry’s face with a strange intensity.

“How do you feel?” he asked Harry.

Harry shook his head, not knowing how to answer that question. He looked quickly toward the door. The hooded creature had vanished. “What happened? Where’s that—that thing? Who screamed?”

“I didn’t scream,” Draco said quickly. “I mean, no one screamed. That wasn’t a—a  _ scream _ . I was just—startled—”

“No,” Harry interrupted, “I definitely heard a scream. I think it was a girl...”

A loud snap made them all jump. The strange wizard was breaking an enourmous slab of chocolate into pieces.

“Here,” he said to Harry, handing him a particularly large piece. “Eat it. It’ll help.”

Harry took the chocolate but didn’t eat it.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I am Professor Lupin,” said the tired-faced man. “I’m going to be teaching you Defense Against the Dark Arts this year.”

“Then do you know what that thing was?” Harry asked.

“A dementor,” said Professor Lupin, who was now giving chocolate to everyone else. “One of the dementors of Azkaban.”

Everyone stared at him. Professor Lupin crumpled up the chocolate wrapper and put it in his pocket.

“A dementor?” Draco whimpered. His voice came out as a high-pitched squeak.

“Eat,” Lupin repeated. “It’ll help. I need to speak to the driver, excuse me...”

He strolled past Harry and disappeared into the corridor.

Harry looked around the bright compartment. Crabbe and Goyle stared back at him, their eyes wide and their broad faces pale. They looked like someone had just told them that Hogwarts had permanently stopped serving desert, and they clutched their pieces of chocolate like they were the only good thing left in the world. Draco was pressed back against the compartment wall, shaky and white-faced. He, too, was staring at Harry.

“Are you...all right?” Draco asked in a whisper.

“I don’t get it....What happened?” said Harry, wiping more sweat off his face.

“The d-dementor, it...it looked around,” Draco explained, “I guess, and it sort of...” His pale face blanched.

“It smelled something,” Goyle offered helpfully. His voice was almost as hoarse as Lupin’s.

“Right,” Draco continued nervously, “and—and you...sort of...stiffened...”

“You fainted,” Crabbe said, when Draco seemed disinclined to continue. “The dem’tor sort of leaned in over you. You musta smelled really funny, ‘cause it kept sniffing. Then Malfoy ran away—”

“I was trying to find someone to help Potter!” Draco interrupted shrilly.

Crabbe nodded. “And he came back with that professor fellow.”

“What’s a professor doing on the train?” Goyle asked.

The others ignored him, more concerned with the presence of a dementor than a teacher.

“Then that Professor Lupin, or whatever he is, he came back with me, and he told the d-dementor off, only it didn’t listen—it looked like it was trying to eat you, really. Crabbe and Goyle were blubbering over there,” Draco pointed at the seat, “and you were still twitching on the floor.  Lupin got really cross, and he cast some sort of silvery-wisp spell that made the d-dementor leave...” Draco swallowed hard.

“Felt better when it left,” Crabbe said roughly. He bit his piece of chocolate and chewed savagely.

“Yeah,” Goyle agreed, although he still looked sickly. He licked the last of his own chocolate off his fingers and managed to smile. “Felt awful when it was here, though,” he said.

“Like...I dunno...things’d always be bad...”

“But none of you...er...?” Harry asked.

The others avoided his eyes. “Didn’t faint,” Goyle muttered. “Just felt bad.” Crabbe nodded hard.

“That’s what it’s like at Azkaban,” Draco said quietly. “That’s why they have the d-dementors there. They make...make the prisoners feel that way. So they don’t even bother trying to get out. And if they do try, the dementors are supposed to...supposed to...” He broke off, turning away from the others and shivering.

“And Sirius Black walked past a whole bunch of them,” Harry whispered, “to get to me.”

No one said anything. Draco refused to look at the others. Crabbe and Goyle were sitting so close together on their bench that they looked like one big lump with two heads. They were both staring at Harry, as if waiting for him to do another trick.

Harry didn’t understand. He felt weak and shivery, as though he were recovering from a bad bout of flu; he also felt the beginnings of shame. Why had he gone to pieces like that, when no one else had?

Professor Lupin had come back. He paused as he entered, looked around, and said with a small smile, “Your friends don’t look like they’ve been poisoned. I’m sure you two could survive the chocolate as well....”

Harry saw that Draco, too, was still holding his uneaten piece of chocolate. Harry took a bite and to his great surprise felt warmth spread suddenly to the tips of his fingers and toes.

“We’ll be at Hogwarts in ten minutes,” said Professor Lupin. “Are you all right, Harry?”

Harry didn’t need to ask how Professor Lupin knew his name. Even if he hadn’t been so famous that Lupin couldn’t have helped but recognize him, Harry was sure that his friends had probably called his name loudly enough, when he fainted, to let everyone within five compartments know who was ill.

“Fine,” he muttered, embarrassed. He avoided Lupin’s eyes until the professor went away.

They didn’t talk much during the remainder of the journey. At long last, the train stopped at Hogsmeade station, and there was a great scramble to get outside; owls hooted, cats meowed, and even the toads of those students too unfortunate to have more interesting pets croaked in protest at the weather. It was freezing on the tiny platform; rain was driving down in icy sheets.

“Firs’ years this way!” called a familiar voice. Harry turned and saw the gigantic outline of Hagrid at the other end of the platform, beckoning the terrified-looking new students forward for their their traditional journey across the lake. Harry shivered. He didn’t envy the first years a boat crossing in this weather.

“All righ’, Harry?” Hagrid yelled over the heads of the crowd. Harry waved at him, but had no chance to speak to him because the mass of people around Harry and his friends was shunting them away along the platform in spite of Crabbe and Goyle’s stout bulk. Harry followed the rest of the school along the platform and out onto a rough mud track, where at least a hundred stagecoaches awaited the remaining students, each pulled, Harry could only assume, by an invisible horse, because when they climbed inside and shut the door, the coach set off all by itself, bumping and swaying in procession.

The coach smelled faintly of mold and straw. Harry felt better since the chocolate, but still weak. Crabbe kept looking at him sideways, as if hoping that he might collapse again.

As the carriage trundled toward a pair of magnificent wrought iron gates, flanked with stone columns topped with winged boars, Harry saw two more towering, hooded dementors, standing guard on either side. A wave of cold sickness threatened to engulf him again; he leaned back into the lumpy seat and closed his eyes until they had passed the gate. The carriage picked up speed on the long, sloping drive up to the castle; Draco sat with his face pressed against the tiny window, watching the many turrets and towers draw nearer. At last, the carriage swayed to a halt, and Crabbe and Goyle jumped out.

Harry and Draco followed more slowly, Harry still feeling shaky from his encounter with the dementor.

“And of course, it’s really advanced magic, making fire wandlessly—”

Harry heard Hermione Granger’s shrill voice over the noise of the crowd. He turned to look, and saw her talking excitedly to a bemused looking Ron Weasley and Neville Longbottom. Ginny Weasley, looking very pale, trailed behind her brother and his friends as they climbed the stone steps up into the castle.

Weasley shook his head. “All I’m saying is, I don’t see why a professor was on the bloody train.”

“Bet he couldn’t afford any other transport,” a soft voice muttered. “Did you see the state of his robes?”

Next to Harry, Draco was also watching the Gryffindors, scorn thick on his pointed features.

Harry shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t want to wear his good stuff traveling.”

Draco snorted. “Maybe,” he said.

“Can we go inside?” Goyle whined. “I’m  _hungry_ .”

“You’re always hungry,” Draco retorted, but led the way over to the entrance. The four of them joined the crowd swarming up the steps, through the giant oak front doors, into the cavernous entrance hall, which was lit with flaming torches, and housed a magnificent marble staircase that led to the upper floors.

The door into the Great Hall stood open at the right; Harry followed the crowd toward it but had barely glimpsed the enchanted ceiling, which was black and cloudy tonight, when a voice called, “Potter! Come along with me a moment!”

Harry and his friends turned around, surprised. Professor McGonagall, Transfiguration teacher, deputy headmistress, and head of Gryffindor House, was calling over the heads of the crowd. She was a stern-looking witch who wore her hair in a tight bun; her sharp eyes were framed with square spectacles. Harry fought his way over to her with a feeling of foreboding: Professor McGonagall had a way of making him feel he must have done something wrong.

Hermione Granger, looking pale and nervous, was standing next to McGonagall. She gave Harry a weak smile.

“There’s no need to look so worried—I just want a word with you both in my office,” she told Harry. “Move along there, Malfoy.”

Draco scowled as Professor McGonagall ushered Harry and Hermione away from the chattering crowd; they accompanied her across the entrance hall, up the marble staircase, and along a corridor.

Once they were in her office, a small room with a large, welcoming fire, Professor McGonagall motioned Harry and Hermione to sit down. She settled herself behind her desk and said abruptly, “Professor Lupin sent an owl ahead to say that you were taken ill on the train, Potter.”

Before Harry could reply, there was a soft knock on the door and Madame Pomfrey, the nurse, came bustling in.

Harry felt himself going red in the face. “I’m fine,” he said, “I don’t need anything—”

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” said Madame Pomfrey, ignoring this and bending down to stare closely at him. “I suppose you’ve been doing something dangerous again?”

“It was a dementor, Poppy,” said Professor McGonagall.

They exchanged a dark look, and Madame Pomfrey clucked disapprovingly.

“Setting dementors around a school,” she muttered, pushing back Harry’s hair and feeling his forehead. “He won’t be the last one who collapses. Yes, he’s all clammy. Terrible things, they are, and the effect they have on people who are already delicate—”

“I’m not delicate!” said Harry crossly.

“Of course you’re not,” said Madame Pomfrey absentmindedly, now taking his pulse.

“What does he need?” said Professor McGonagall crisply. “Bed rest? Should he perhaps spend tonight in the hospital wing?”

“I’m  _ fine _ !” said Harry, jumping up. The thought of what people would say if he had to go to the hospital wing was torture.

“Well, he should have some chocolate, at the very least,” said Madame Pomfrey, who was now trying to peer into Harry’s eyes.

“I’ve already had some,” said Harry. “Professor Lupin game me some. He gave it to all of us.”

“Did he now?” said Madame Pomfrey approvingly. “So we’ve finally got a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher who knows his remedies?”

“Are you sure you feel all right, Potter?” Professor McGonagall said sharply.

“ _ Yes _ ,” said Harry.

“Very well. Kindly wait outside while I have a quick word with Miss Granger about her course schedule, then we can go down to the feast together.”

Harry went back into the corridor with Madame Pomfrey, who left for the hospital wing, muttering to herself. He had to wait only a few minutes; then Hermione emerged, looking very happy about something, followed by Professor McGonagall, and the three of them made their way back down the marble staircase to the Great Hall.

It was a sea of pointed hats; each of the long House tables was lined with students, their faces glimmering by the light of thousands of candles, which were floating over the tables in midair. Professor Flitwick, who was a tiny little wizard with a shock of white hair, was carrying an ancient hat and a three-legged stool out of the hall.

“Oh,” said Hermione softly, “we’ve missed the Sorting!”

New students at Hogwarts were sorted into Houses by trying on the Sorting Hat, which shouted out the House they were best suited to (Slytherin, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, or Gryffindor). Professor McGonagall strode off toward her empty seat at the staff table, and Harry and Hermione split off to their respective house tables on opposite sides of the hall. People looked around at them as they passed along the back of the hall, and a few of them pointed at Harry. Had the story of his collapsing in front of the dementor traveled that fast?

Harry sat down between Draco, who had saved him a seat, and Lilian Moon, a girl in their year who had a habit of color-charming her hair. Today it was an eye-smarting silver. “You missed a good song,” she told Harry earnestly. “Very poetic.”

“Er...that’s too bad,” Harry said politely.

“What on earth did McGonagall want with you?” Draco asked, ignoring Lilian.

Harry started to explain in a whisper, but at that moment the headmaster stood up to speak, and he broke off.

Professor Dumbledore, though very old, always gave an impression of great energy. He had several feet of long silver hair and beard, half-moon spectacles, and an extremely crooked nose. He was often described as the greatest wizard of the age, although most of Harry’s friends did not share that view. Harry, however, couldn’t help but respect Professor Dumbledore, even if he kept that fact to himself. He had grown to quite like the odd, quirky old wizard, and as he watched him beaming around at the students, he felt really calm for the first time since the dementor had entered the train compartment.

“Welcome!” said Dumbledore, the candlelight shimmering on his beard. “Welcome to another year at Hogwarts! I have a few things to say to you all, and as one of them is very serious, I think it best to get it out of the way before you become befuddled by our excellent feast....”

Dumbledore cleared his throat and continued. “As you will all be aware after their search of the Hogwarts Express, our school is presently playing host to some of the dementors of Azkaban, who are here on Ministry of Magic business.”

He paused, and Harry thought that Dumbledore didn’t look much happier about the dementors being here than Harry was, himself.

“They are stationed at every entrance to the grounds,” Dumbledore continued, “and while they are with us, I must make it plain that nobody is to leave school without permission. Dementors are not to be fooled by tricks or disguises—or even Invisibility Cloaks,” he added blandly, and Harry and Draco glanced at each other. “It is not in the nature of a dementor to understand pleading or excuses. I therefore warn each and every one of you to give them no reason to harm you. I look to the prefects, and our new Head Boy and Girl, to make sure that no student runs afoul of the dementors,” he said.

Dumbledore paused again; he looked very seriously around the hall, and nobody moved or made a sound.

“On a happier note,” he continued, “I am pleased to welcome two new teachers to our ranks this year.

“First, Professor Lupin, who has kindly consented to fill the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

There was some scattered, rather unenthusiastic applause. Professor Lupin looked particularly shabby next to all the other teachers in their best robes. “Wonder how long  _ he’ll  _ last,” Pansy Parkinson muttered. “Not even ‘til Christmas,” Blaise Zabini sneered back. The Slytherins snickered.

Draco nudged Harry in his side. “Look at Professor Snape,” he whispered.

Professor Snape, the Potions master and head of Slytherin house, was staring along the staff table at Professor Lupin. It was common knowledge that Snape wanted the Defense Against the Dark Arts job, but Harry was startled at the expression twisting his thin, sallow face. It was beyond anger: it was loathing. Even Harry, who did not get on with Snape as well as his housemates, had never seen Snape look that murderous.

“As to our second new appointment,” Dumbledore continued as the lukewarm applause for Professor Lupin died away. “Well, I am sorry to tell you that Professor Kettleburn, our Care of Magical Creatures teacher, retired at the end of last year in order to enjoy more time with his remaining limbs. However, I am delighted to say that his place will be filled by none other than Rubeus Hagrid, who has agreed to take on this teaching job in addition to his gamekeeping duties.”

Harry’s jaw fell open in astonishment. Then he joined in with the applause, which was much louder than it had been for Professor Lupin. Harry heard Draco exclaim, “That oaf, a teacher?” but Harry clapped harder, ignoring him. He leaned forward to see Hagrid, who was ruby-red in the face and staring down at his enourmous hands, his wide grin hidden in the tangle of his black beard.

Harry was the last to stop clapping, and as Professor Dumbledore started speaking again, he saw that Hagrid was wiping his eyes on the tablecloth.

“Well, I think that’s everything of importance,” said Dumbledore. “Let the feast begin!”

The golden plates and goblets before them filled suddenly with food and drink. Harry, suddenly ravenous, helped himself to everything he could reach and began to eat.

It was a delicious feast; the hall echoed with talk, laughter, and the clatter of knives and forks. Harry, however, was eager for it to finish so that he could talk to Hagrid. Harry knew how much being a teacher would mean to him. Hagrid wasn’t a fully qualified wizard; he had been expelled from Hogwarts in his third year for a crime he had not committed. It had been Harry, along with Draco, Goyle, and Crabbe, who had cleared Hagrid’s name last year.

At long last, when the last morsels of pumpkin tart had melted from the golden platters, Dumbledore gave the word that it was time for them all to go to bed, and Harry got his chance.

“Brilliant job, Hagrid!” said Harry, as he reached the teacher’s table. His friends, following behind him, said nothing; Harry could see reluctance all over Draco’s face, but both Crabbe and Goyle were smiling guilessly enough.

“All down ter yer, Harry,” said Hagrid, “all four ‘o yer, really.” He wiped his shining face on his napkin as he looked up at them. “Can’ believe it...great man, Dumbledore...came straight down to me hut after Professor Kettleburn said he’d had enough....It’s what I always wanted....”

Overcome with emotion, he buried his face in his napkin, and Harry let Draco pull him away.

The four boys joined the Slytherins streaming down the marble staircase and, very tired now, along more corridors, and down the labyrinthine dungeon hallways, to the hidden entrance to the Slytherin common room: a blank patch of stone wall, which sometimes even experienced students misplaced.

A prefect with unruly curls shouldered his way through the crowd and announced, “The new password is  _ sodalitas _ .”

The stones of the wall ground open, revealing an arched doorway through which the Slytherins walked. They crossed the long, low-ceilinged common room, the girls and boys dividing toward their separate staircases. Harry walked down the stone stairs with no thought in his head except how glad he was to be back. They reached their familiar, underwater dormitory with its six four-poster beds, and Harry, looking around, felt he was home at last.


	6. Talons and Tea Leaves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much of the ensuing chapter will seem decidedly familiar, being taken in large part directly from the original text (American hardcover, first edition, starting on page 96), but several distinct changes have been made in all parts, so I don’t recommend skipping any sections this time.

When Harry entered the Great Hall the next morning with his friends, he was relieved to see no sign of dementors anywhere in the long room. Professor Dumbledore’s warning last night had made him worry that the creatures might end up patrolling the halls, and Harry hadn’t been looking forward to swooning on his way to class every day.

All he saw today, though, were half-awake students in long black robes, pouring over their new schedules while they shoveled breakfast into their mouths.

Harry dropped into a seat next to Marcus Flint, the captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team. Flint was a tall, burly boy with large teeth and an almost perpetual frown. He grunted and shoved a stack of parchment toward Harry. Harry sorted through until he found the one that had his name on it.

“Are those our course schedules?” Draco asked, snatching his away from Harry. “Splendid, let’s see when we get to start the new classes...”

While Draco looked over his class list and Crabbe and Goyle dug into heaping plates of sausages and eggs, Harry looked around the Great Hall. Professor Lupin, looking almost as tired and shabby as he had last night, was chatting with tiny Professor Flitwick. The diminutive Charms professor looked perfectly happy to have Lupin sitting next to him. By contrast Professor Snape, down at the end of the staff table, was glaring at the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher with something very much like murder in his black eyes.

Flitwick gave a hearty giggle at something Professor Lupin said to him and tumbled sideways off his chair. Lupin helped him back into his seat, both of them chuckling. Even stern Professor McGonagall smiled at that, though she also shook her head disparagingly. Snape only glowered harder, then suddenly shot to his feet and swept out of the hall.

Harry shivered. He wasn’t looking forward to Potions Class with Snape in such a mood.

“I wonder what’s got him so riled-up,” Harry muttered.

Just then, Hagrid entered the Great Hall. He was wearing his large moleskin overcoat and was absentmindedly swinging a dead polecat from one enourmous hand.

“All righ’?” he said eagerly, pausing on the way up to the staff table. “Yer in my firs’ ever lesson! Right after lunch! Bin up since five gettin’ everythin’ ready....Hope it’s okay....Me, a teacher...hones’ly...”

He grinned broadly at Harry and headed off to the staff table, still swinging his polecat.

“Honestly indeed,” Draco muttered sarcastically. Harry ignored him.

The hall was starting to empty as people headed off toward their first lesson. Harry checked his course schedule. “History of Magic first,” Harry complained, “that’s boring, I was hoping we’d get to start with one of the new classes. At least we have Care of Magical Creatures after lunch...”

“If you can call that a class,” Draco sneered.

“Quidditch practice starts end of the week,” Marcus Flint interrupted before Harry could say anything. “You better both be there.” The Slytherincaptain stood up and walked away without waiting for their answers.

“He’s not in a good mood, is he?” Harry asked Draco.

“You blame him?” Draco retorted. “After what happened last year....”

“Yeah,” said Harry, “but we’re not likely to have a monster roaming the school _again_ , so Quidditch won’t be canceled this year, will it? He could cheer up.”

“All right there, Harry? Boys?”

Professor Lupin paused on his way out of the Great Hall to nod amiably to Harry and his friends.

“Er—we’re fine, _professor_ ,” Draco said, putting a slight emphasis on Lupin’s title, as if he wasn’t quite sure the man deserved it. He raked his eyes across Lupin’s shabby robes without making any effort to hide his inspection, or his scornful smirk.

Harry flushed uncomfortably. “Great, thanks,” he said quickly, trying to distract Lupin.

Lupin smiled at Harry, making the lines under his tired eyes crinkle. “Well let me know if there’s anything I can do for you,” he said before moving away.

“We’ll be sure to call you if we need some rags patched,” Draco said under his breath. Crabbe and Goyle laughed. Harry, however, couldn’t help but think of the dementors, and how Professor Lupin had made the one on the train go away.

“He doesn’t seem that bad to me,” he said boldly.

“He dresses like a House Elf,” Draco sneered.

Harry saw Lupin pause twice more to speak to students—little Ginny Weasley and the Gryffindor boy Neville Longbottom—before he left the Great Hall. Harry looked away, wondering if they had fainted on the train, too.

“We’d better get moving if we’re going to make it up to History on time,” he said.

Crabbe and Goyle gobbled a few last forkfuls then followed Harry and Draco out of the Great Hall, Goyle munching on one final sausage on the way. They passed a group of Gryffindors heading up the large marble staircase and Harry paused to wave to Hermione Granger. She smiled back distractedly. Ron Weasley, walking next to her, grinned. He snickered and turned to speak to Neville Longbottom. Harry only caught the beginning of the story: “The twins told me that yesterday on the train...”

Harry’s spirits sank. It looked like the story of his fainting on the train had started to spread through the school after all. “C’mon,” he muttered to his friends, and walked faster. By the time Harry arrived in their ghostly professor’s History of Magic classroom, he was winded but feeling no better.

Professor Binns’s deathly-dull lectures were not known for their cheerfulness, but by the time Harry left History of Magic, he had been so numbed by the ordeal of trying of stay awake that he no longer cared what people were saying about him.

Charms was almost as bad. Flitwick usually kept his classes light and lively, but he planned to start his third years on some tricky spellwork and said that they needed a good grasp of the technical concepts first, so Harry spent all of Charms reading through his textbook and copying down complicated notes. Goyle got so confused that he laid down on his sheaf of messy notes and took a nap. When he woke up at the end of class he had a big ink smear across one side of his face. Harry thought about telling him, but changed his mind. Crabbe snickered and then hastily checked his own face in the reflection of a shiny gold portrait frame. Halfway down the staircase, Harry was still yawning.

“There’s no way Conjuration Charms can possibly be that complicated,” Harry complained to Draco.

Draco, looking over at Crabbe and Goyle, raised a pointed eyebrow. Harry snorted. “I mean for ordinary people,” he explained.

Crabbe glared at him. Goyle was too busy picking feathery bits of his quill out of his mouth to notice.

 

Harry was pleased to get out of the castle after lunch. Yesterday’s rain had cleared; the sky was a clear, pale gray, and the grass was springy and damp underfoot as they set off for their first ever Care of Magical Creatures class. Goyle had discovered the ink on his face, and blamed Crabbe. They were engaged in a furious shoving match. Harry and Draco, trying not to laugh, led the way down the sloping lawns to Hagrid’s hut on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. It was only when he spotted a familiar mane of bushy brown hair ahead of them that he realized they must be having these lessons with the Gryffindors. Hermione was trailing behind the rest of her housemates, fussing with her schoolbag. Walking with the other Gryffindors were Hermione’s friends Weasley and Longbottom. Weasley was talking animatedly to Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan, who were chortling. Harry had an awful suspicion of what they were talking about.

Hagrid was waiting for his class at the door of his hut. He stood in his moleskin overcoat, with Fang the boarhound at his heels, looking impatient to start.

“C’mon, now, get a move on!” he called as the class approached. “Got a real treat for yeh today! Great lesson comin’ up! Everyone here? Right, follow me!”

For one nasty moment, Harry thought that Hagrid was going to lead them into the forest; Harry had heard enough unpleasant stories about the Forbidden Forest to know that it deserved its name. “We aren’t going in there, are we?” Draco whispered, sounding even more worried than Harry felt. “There are monsters and—and werewolves in there!” Harry swallowed hard and forced himself to follow. However, Hagrid strolled off around the edge of the trees, and five minutes later, they found themselves outside a kind of paddock. There was nothing in there.

“Everyone gather ‘round the fence here!” he called. “That’s it—make sure yeh can see—now, firs’ thing yeh’ll want ter do is open yer books—”

“How?” Draco asked.

“Eh?” said Hagrid.

“How do we open our books?” Draco repeated. He took out his copy of _The Monster Book of Monsters_ , which he had bound shut with a length of rope. Other people took theirs out too; some, like Harry, had belted their book shut; others had crammed them inside tight bags or clamped them together with binder clips. Crabbe had actually wrapped his with a length of chain and padlocked it.

“Hasn’—hasn’ anyone bin able ter open their books?” said Hagrid, looking crestfallen.

The class all shook their heads.

“Yeh’ve got ter _stroke_ ‘em,” said Hagrid, as though this was the most obvious thing in the world. “Look—”

He took Hermione’s copy and ripped off the Spellotape that bound it. The book tried to bite, but Hagrid ran a giant forefinger down its spine, and the book shivered, and then fell open and lay quiet in his hand.

“Oh, how silly we’ve all been!” Draco sneered. “We should have _stroked_ them! Why didn’t we guess!”

“I—I thought they were funny,” Hagrid said uncertainly to Hermione. She looked nervous.

“Oh, tremendously funny!” said Draco. “Really witty, giving us books that try and rip our hands off!”

“I think it was the shopkeeper’s fault,” Harry spoke up quickly. Hagrid was looking downcast and Harry wanted his first lesson to be a success. “He’s the one who sold the books without telling us what to do with them, after all. If we’d known how to use the books I’m sure they’d have been, er, fun.”

Draco made a disbelieving noise but didn’t say anything else. A few people murmured agreement but not very convincingly.

“Righ’ then,” said Hagrid, who seemed to have lost his thread, “so—so yeh’ve got yer books an’—an’—now yeh need the Magical Creatures. Yeah. So I’ll go an’ get ‘em. Hang on...”

He strode away from them into the forest and out of sight.

Harry chanced a glance at his friends. Crabbe and Goyle were looking around dully, Goyle still absently scrubbing at the faded ink on his cheek. Draco stared after Hagrid with a look of appalled dismay on his face, but at least he wasn’t heckling. Hermione Granger had sunk down into a tailor’s seat on the grass and already had her nose buried in _The Monster Book of Monsters_. The rest of the class milled about restlessly, fussing with their biting books. None of them seemed any happier than Draco.

“Hey Malfoy, reckon he’s bringing dementors?”

Harry turned around. Ron Weasley was standing there, his freckled face split in a grin. Seamus Finnegan stood next to him, chortling; Dean Thomas, on the other side, wore a bright grin. Harry glared.

“Excuse me?” said Draco, raising his chin haughtily.

“Yeah,” said Finnigan, “we hear you’re a right big fan of those blighters.”

“Nu-uh,” said Goyle, frowning. “We don’t none of us like them things.”

“Sarcasrm, Goyle,” Draco murmured, rolling his eyes. “We’ve talked about this….”

“Oh,” said Goyle. He nodded sagely. “That makes more sense. I was wondering why they’d think any of us like dem-enties, ‘specially with them making Potter faint. Nasty things.”

“Faint?” repeated Weasley, an expression of gleeful delight spreading across his face. Finnigan began chortling again. “Don’t tell me you _fainted_ , Potter?”

Harry, his cheeks growing hot, glowered at the Gryffindor boys. He would have given anything to be able to reach back in time a few seconds and stop Goyle from speaking.

“Maybe we should’ve brought pillows,” Finnegan offered. He mimed swooning into his friends’ arms.

“I’m sure we could arrange for you to take a nap,” Harry retorted, nodding back at his own friends. Crabbe cracked his knuckles expectantly and Goyle flexed his arms.

“Oooooooh!” squealed Lavender Brown, a giggly Gryffindor girl, pointing toward the opposite side of the paddock.

Trotting toward them were a dozen of the most bizarre creatures Harry had ever seen. They had the bodies, hind legs, and tails of horses, but the front legs, wings, and heads of what seemed to be giant eagles, with cruel, steel-colored beaks and large, brilliantly orange eyes. The talons on their front legs were half a foot long and deadly looking. Each of the beasts had a thick leather collar around its neck, which was attached to a long chain, and the ends of all of these were held in the vast hands of Hagrid, who came jogging into the paddock behind the creatures.

“Gee up, there!” he roared, shaking the chains and urging the creatures toward the fence where the class stood. Everyone drew back slightly as Hagrid reached them and tethered the creatures to the fence.

“Hippogriffs!” Hagrid roared happily, waving a hand at them. “Beau’iful, aren’ they?”

Harry could sort of see what Hagrid meant. Once you got over the shock of seeing something that was half horse, half bird, you started to appreciate the hippogriffs’ gleaming coats, changing smoothly from feather to hair, each of them a different color: stormy gray, bronze, pinkish roan, gleaming chestnut, and inky black.

“So,” said Hagrid, rubbing his hands together and beaming around, “if yeh wan’ ter come a bit nearer—”

No one seemed to want to. Harry, however, approached the fence cautiously. Crabbe and Goyle followed him, then looked back nervously at Draco, who hadn’t budged.

“Now, firs’ thing yeh gotta know abou’ hippogriffs is, they’re proud,” said Hagrid. “Easily offended, hippogriffs are. Don’t never insult one, ‘cause it might be the last thing yeh do. Yeh always wait fer the hippogriff ter make the firs’ move,” Hagrid continued. “It’s polite, see? Yeh walk toward him, and yeh bow, and yeh wait. If he bows back, yeh’re allowed ter touch him. If he doesn’ bow, then get away from him sharpish, ‘cause those talons hurt.

“Right—who wants ter go first?”

Most of the class backed away in answer. Crabbe and Goyle bolted to Draco’s side. Even Harry had misgivings. The hippogriffs were tossing their fierce heads and flexing their powerful wings; they didn’t seem to like being tethered like this.

“No one?” said Hagrid, with a pleading look.

“I’ll do it,” said Harry.

There was an intake of breath behind him. “Don’t be mental!” Draco whispered.

Harry ignored him. He climbed over the paddock fence.

“Good man, Harry!” roared Hagrid. “Right then—let’s see how yeh get on with Buckbeak.”

He untied one of the chains, pulled the gray hippogriff away from its fellows, and slipped off its leather collar. The class on the other side of the paddock seemed to be holding its breath. Hermione had even looked up from her book, and was staring at Harry with wide eyes. Even Weasley, Finnegan, and Thomas had fallen silent to watch.

“Easy now, Harry,” said Hagrid quietly. “Yeh’ve got eye contact, now try not ter blink....Hippogriffs don’ trust yeh if yeh blink too much....”

Harry’s eyes immediately began to water, but he didn’t shut them. Buckbeak had turned his great, sharp head and was staring at Harry with one fierce orange eye.

“Tha’s it,” said Hagrid. “Tha’s it, Harry...now, bow...”

Harry didn’t feel much like exposing the back of his neck to Buckbeak, but he did as he was told. He gave a short bow and then looked up.

The hippogriff was still staring haughtily at him. It didn’t move.

“Ah,” said Hagrid, sounding worried. “Right—back away, now, Harry, easy does it—”

But then to Harry’s enourmous surprise, the hippogriff suddenly bent its scaly front knees and sank into what was an unmistakable bow.

“Well done, Harry!” said Hagrid, ecstatic. “Right—yeh can touch him! Pat his beak, go on!”

Feeling that a better reward would have been to back away, Harry moved slowly toward the hippogriff and reached out toward it. He patted the beak several times and the hippogriff closed its eyes lazily, as though enjoying it.

The class broke into applause; even Finnegan, Thomas, and Weasley, who looked more surprised than impressed.

“Righ’ then, Harry,” said Hagrid, “I reckon he might’ let yeh ride him!”

This was more than Harry had bargained for. He was used to a broomstick, but he wasn’t sure a hippogriff would be quite the same.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea, Professor,” Hermione spoke up tentatively. “Hippogriffs are well beyond the standard third year curriculum to begin with, and according to the Regulatory Board for the Advisory Committee of Magical Learning, interacting with Magical Creatures of their level is strongly recommended only for students who have passed their O.W.L.s with at least A’s or—”

“Balderdash,” Hagrid interrupted her cheerfully. “Harry’ll be fine, won’ yeh Harry?” Harry smiled weakly, but before he could think of a diplomatic way to agree with Hermione, Hagrid was guiding him forward. “Yeh climb up there, jus’ behind the wing joint,” said Hagrid, “and mind yeh don’ pull any o’ his feathers out, he won’ like that....”

Harry put his foot on the top of Buckbeak’s wing and hoisted himself onto its back. Buckbeak stood up. Harry wasn’t sure where to hold on; everything in front of him was covered in feathers.

“Go on, then!” roared Hagrid, slapping the hippogriff’s hindquarters.

Without warning twelve-foot wings flapped open on either side of Harry; he just had time to seize the hippogriff around the neck before he was soaring upward. It was nothing like a broomstick, and Harry knew which one he preferred; the hippogriff’s wings beat uncomfortably on either side of him, catching him under his legs and making him feel he was about to be thrown off and he didn’t dare get a stronger grip; instead of the smooth action of his Nimbus Two Thousand and One, he now felt himself rocking backward and forward as the hindquarters of the hippogriff rose and fell with its wings.

Buckbeak flew him once around the paddock and then headed back to the ground; this was the bit Harry had been dreading; he leaned back as the smooth neck lowered, feeling he was going to slip off over the beak, then felt a heavy thud as the four ill-assorted feet hit the ground. He just managed to hold on and push himself straight again.

“Good work, Harry!” roared Hagrid as everyone cheered. “Okay, who else wants a go?”

Emboldened by Harry’s success, the rest of the class climbed cautiously into the paddock. Hagrid untied the hippogriffs one by one, and soon people were bowing nervously, all over the paddock. Harry laughed at the sight of Neville Longbottom running repeatedly backward from his, which didn’t seem to want to bend its knees. Hermione Granger tried to help him, but while the gray hippogriff bowed to Hermione on her first try, it refused to so much as blink at Longbottom. Next to them, the other three Gryffindor boys were having a grand time daring each other to get closer and closer to the chestnut, while Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil giggled nervously.

Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle had taken over Buckbeak. It didn’t take Draco long to convince the hippogriff to bow to him, and he was now patting its beak, looking disdainful. Crabbe and Goyle watched dully, hanging back with Harry.

“Well I don’t see what was so difficult about that,” Draco said in a carrying voice. “It’s the same principle father advises for dealing with politicians: show a little deference, add some flattery, and the next thing you know they’re eating out of your hand. Not,” he added quickly when Buckbeak tossed his head, “that I’d want one of these eating out of my hand.”

Draco stuck his hands in his pockets and backed away from the hippogriff, who raked the ground with one birdlike talon before settling down. Draco had gone very pale, but he imperiously waved Crabbe forward to take his turn. Harry looked away so that Draco wouldn’t see him snicker. The Gryffindor boys were getting louder as they fooled around in front of their hippogriff. “That’s hideous!” Seamus Finnegan turned away, laughing at the face Weasley was making. Harry grumbled under his breath, wishing that Hagrid would tell them to shut-up, but Hagrid seemed delighted with the class’s enthusiasm.

It happened in a flash of steely talons; Finnegan let out a high pitched scream and next moment, Hagrid was wrestling the chestnut hippogriff back into his collar as he strained to get at Finnegan, who lay curled in the grass, blood blossoming down the back of his robes.

Finnegan swore loudly, his thick brogue obscuring his words, which was probably just as well. The class panicked and Lavender Brown let out a loud scream. “It killed him!” she shrieked.

“‘E didn’ kill nothin’!” said Hagrid, who had gone very white. “Someone help me—gotta get him outta here—”

Hermione ran to hold open the gate as Hagrid lifted Finnegan easily. As they passed Harry saw Finnegan’s eyes roll back in his head and the sandy-haired boy went limp. Blood splattered the grass and Hagrid ran with him, up the slope toward the castle.

Very shaken, the Care of Magical Creatures class followed at a walk. They were all talking about the attack.

“Did you see all that blood?” Dean Thomas said, sounding awed. “That was a lot of blood, wasn’t it?”

“Oh he’s going to die, I just know it!” said Lavender Brown, who was in tears.

“It’s just like Professor Trelawney said!” wailed her friend Parvati Patil.

“He should never have introduced hippogriffs this early,” Hermione Granger was muttering to herself under her breath. “One would think a new professor would consult the guidelines for dangerous creatures before planning his lessons, Seamus might be seriously hurt. Professor Hagrid should have had safeguards in place to protect the students, I don’t know why...”

“You’re one to talk about dangerous animals,” Ron Weasley said loudly. Harry was surprised that Weasley was still so upset about the cat jumping on his head.

Hermione glared at Ron furiously, then stomped away.

They rest of the class followed her up the stone steps into the deserted entrance hall.

“I’m going to check on Seamus,” said Thomas, and they all watched him run up the marble staircase. The Gryffindors, several of them still weeping, headed away in the direction of their tower common room; Harry, Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle proceeded downstairs to the Slytherin Dungeon.

“That may be the best class we’ve ever had!” Draco crowed happily. “Did you see their faces? Mind you, I’m half-tempted to write to father and tell him what happened. I don’t think that class is safe. It could have easily been one of us that hippogriff chose to savage.”

“I don’t think so,” Harry said loyally. “Hagrid told everyone not to insult the hippogriffs. It’s Finnegan’s fault he was fooling around.”

“You think he’ll really die?” Goyle asked.

“Who cares?” said Draco, making Crabbe snicker.

“Of course he’s not going to die,” said Harry, who had had far worse injuries mended magically by the nurse. “You remember last year, it hardly took Pomfrey any time at all to fix the lot of us up, and we had a whole ceiling collapse on top of us.”

“Oh yeah,” said Goyle.

“Still, it was a great start to the class, wasn’t it?” Draco said sarcastically. “Looks to me like we have yet another professor who isn’t going to last out the year....”

“You’re wrong,” Harry said, but even he didn’t believe himself.

Harry and his friends were among the first to reach the Great Hall at dinnertime. Harry looked around, hoping to see Hagrid, but he wasn’t there.

“You don’t think they’re really going to fire Hagrid, do you?” he asked, barely picking at his steak-and-kidney pie.

“Over one stupid Gryffindor getting bloodied up?” snorted Draco. “Don’t bet on it.”

Everyone else was seated and already eating before Seamus Finnegan reappeared. He swaggered into the Great Hall and took his seat among the Gryffindors, acting, in Harry’s opinion, as though he were the survivor of some dreadful battle. A crowd soon formed around him, Seamus no doubt telling the story of his hippogriff attack. The Weasley twins, sitting on the fringes of the group, looked mightily interested; when Finnegan finally stopped talking, they applauded loudly.

“What a prat,” said Harry grumpily, stabbing his potatoes. “I bet he’s going to make it all out to be Hagrid’s fault, too.”

 

Harry’s next day of classes didn’t get off to much of a better start. Divination was all the way at the top of the North Tower, which meant that the Slytherins had to cut their breakfast short to get there on time, which put Crabbe and Goyle in a foul mood. Harry made sure to walk on the far side of Draco, just in case either of the large boys felt like venting his temper with his fist. Harry had learned the hard way that they could hit even harder than Dudley.

“Dunno why we took this class anyway,” Goyle complained, panting from the climb up the tightly-spiraling stairs.

“Because you’re both too stupid to take Ancient Runes?” Draco suggested, sounding cross.

Draco had been upset to realize that while he was scheduled to be in Runes, his friends had free time. He didn’t think that was fair. “I thought you lot would be stuck in a study hall or something,” he had complained. “I didn’t realize I was going to have _more_ classes, I just thought they would be more _interesting_.” Snape had been unsympathetic when Draco tried to change his schedule. Now the only Slytherin taking as many classes as Draco was Theodore Nott, who was taking both Runes and Arithmancy, along with Care of Magical Creatures. Harry was very glad that he was not Theodore Nott, but that thought didn’t seem to cheer Draco up, so Harry kept it to himself.

“I really hope we don’t ever have Divination right after Herbology or Care of Magical Creatures,” Harry complained as he dragged his feet up the last few steps. “Walking all the way up here from the grounds would be murder.”

“Up where?” Crabbe asked, looking around. “I don’t see any classroom.”

Harry looked around the tiny landing. The rest of the class was slowly assembling behind him, edging carefully in to the cramped space. There were no doors off the landing, but Harry looked up and saw a circular trapdoor set into the ceiling. There was a brass plaque on the door.

“ ‘Sibyll Trelawney, Divination teacher,’ ” Harry read. “How’re we supposed to get up there?”

As though in answer to his question, the trapdoor suddenly opened, and a silvery ladder descended right at Harry’s feet. Everyone got quiet.

“Go on then, Potter,” Draco said challengingly, so Harry climbed the ladder first.

He emerged into the strangest-looking classroom he had ever seen. In fact, it didn’t look like a classroom at all, more like a cross between someone’s attic and an old-fashioned tea shop. At least twenty small, circular tables were crammed inside it, all surrounded by chintz armchairs and fat little poufs. Everything was lit with a dim, crimson light; the curtains at the windows were all closed, and the many lamps were draped with dark red scarves. It was stiflingly warm, and the fire that was burning under the crowded mantlepiece was giving off a heavy, sickly sort of perfume as it heated a large copper kettle. The shelves running around the circular walls were crammed with dusty-looking feathers, stubs of candles, many packs of tattered playing cards, countless silvery crystal balls, and a huge array of teacups.

Draco appeared at Harry’s shoulder as the class assembled around them, all talking in whispers.

“So where is she, then?” he demanded loudly.

A voice came suddenly out of the shadows, a soft, misty sort of voice.

“Welcome,” it said. “How nice to see you in the physical world at last.”

Harry’s immediate impression was of a large, glittering insect. Professor Trelawney moved into the firelight, and they saw that she was very thin; her large glasses magnified her eyes to several times their natural size, and she was draped in a gauzy spangled shawl. Innumerable chains and beads hung around her spindly neck, and her arms and hands were encrusted with bangles and rings.

“Sit, my children, sit,” she said, and they all climbed awkwardly into armchairs or sank onto poufs. Harry and Draco sat themselves around the same round table, while Crabbe and Goyle sank heavily onto the cushions next to them. The two burly boys dwarfed their small table, like giants playing house with dolls’ things. Harry tried not to laugh.

“Welcome to Divination,” said Professor Trelawney, who had seated herself in a winged armchair in front of the fire. “My name is Professor Trelawney. You may not have seen me before. I find that descending too often into the hustle and bustle of the main school clouds my inner eye.”

Nobody said anything to this extraordinary pronouncement. Professor Trelawney delicately rearranged her shawl and continued, “So you have chosen to study Divination, the most difficult of all magical arts. I must warn you at the outset that if you do not have the Sight, there is very little I will be able to teach you. Books can take you only so far in this field....”

At these words, both Goyle and Crabbe brightened up considerably.

“Many witches and wizards, talented though they are in the area of loud bangs and smells and sudden disappearings, are yet unable to penetrate the veiled mysteries of the future,” Professor Trelawney went on, her enormous, gleaming eyes moving from face to nervous face. “It is a Gift granted to few. You, girl,” she said suddenly to Daphne Greengrass, who shrank back into her armchair. “Is your sister well?”

“Y-yes,” stammered Daphne, “I mean, she looked all right at breakfast...”

“I wouldn’t be so confident if I were you, dear,” said Professor Trelawney, the firelight glinting on her long emerald earrings. Daphne stared out fearfully between her fingers. Professor Trelawney continued placidly. “We will be covering the basic methods of Divination this year. The first term will be devoted to reading the tea leaves. Next term we shall progress to palmistry. By the way, my dear,” she shot suddenly at Lilian, “beware unsigned presents.”

Lilian put her hands over her mouth and nodded earnestly.

“In the second term,” Professor Trelawney went on, “we shall progress to the crystal ball—if we have finished with fire omens, that is. Incidentally my boy,” she said to Crabbe, “I don’t see that section of the syllabus going well for you, so you may want to stock-up on Burn Balm ahead of time.” Crabbe edged nervously away from the fireplace next to him as Professor Trelawney continued: “Unfortunately, classes will be disrupted in February by a nasty bout of flu. I myself will lose my voice. And before the year is out, one of our number will be damaged beyond repair.”

A very tense silence followed this pronouncement, but Professor Trelawney seemed unaware of it.

“I wonder, dear,” she said to Millicent Bulstrode, who was nearest, “if you could pass me the largest silver teapot?”

Millicent, looking resentful, stood up, took an enormous teapot from the shelf, and put it down on the table in front of Professor Trelawney.

“Thank you, my dear. Incidentally, please accept my condolences for your Christmas in advance.”

Millicent squeaked and dropped back onto her poof with a thump.

“Now, I want you all to divide into pairs. Collect a teacup from the shelf, come to me, and I will fill it. Then sit down and drink, drink until only the dregs remain. Swill these around the cup three times with the left hand, then turn the cup upside down on its saucer, wait for the last of the tea to drain away, then give your cup to your partner to read. You will interpret the patterns using pages five and six of _Unfogging the Future_.”

Goyle raised his hand.

“You may borrow a copy of the book for today,” Professor Trelawney said, before Goyle could admit that he had forgotten his textbook. “There is one waiting for you on the shelf next to the teacups. Do try and remember yours for next class, though, because I will have temporarily misplaced my extra copy between now and then.” Goyle’s wide face went pale and he put his hand down.

“I shall move among you,” Trelawney went on airily, “helping and instructing. Oh, and boys”—she pointed at Crabbe and Goyle, who shrank back on their poufs—“after you’ve broken the first cups, would you do me a favor and use the blue-patterned ones? I’m rather attached to the pink.” They both nodded fearfully and Trelawney smiled. “Very kind,” she said, and picked up her teakettle to pour for the students.

When Harry and Draco had their teacups filled, they went back to their table and tried to drink the scalding tea quickly. They swilled the dregs around as Professor Trelawney had instructed, then drained the cups and swapped over.

“If the quality of the tea is any indication,” Draco muttered, “I don’t see good things in our future....” He and Harry opened their books to pages five and six. “All right, what do you see?”

“A load of soggy brown stuff,” said Harry. The heavily-perfumed smoke in the room was making him feel sleepy and stupid.

“Broaden your minds, my dears, and allow your eyes to see past the mundane!” Professor Trelawney cried through the gloom.

Harry tried to pull himself together.

There was a tinkle of snapping china from behind Harry. He turned to see that Crabbe and Goyle had both turned their cups over too hard, and cracked them against the saucers. Goyle blinked at the snapped-off handle in his fingers as if he didn’t know how it had gotten there. Professor Trelawney swept over to their table with a dustpan and brush and said, “There we are, then, the blue ones this time if you don’t mind...thank you....”

They stomped dully to the shelves and chose new cups, which they carried back over to Trelawney to have filled again. “Dunno why she doesn’t just cast a repairing spell,” Draco muttered too quietly for anyone but Harry to hear him, “unless she’s another fraud like Lockhart.” Harry bit his lip to hide a smirk and turned back to his book.

“Okay,” he said, “you’ve got a thing that looks a bit like a question mark, or maybe a fish hook...” He consulted _Unfogging the Future_. “That means you’re either going to win a great prize, or someone’s lying to you about something important...”

“That seems a pretty crucial distinction,” Draco said snidely. “Maybe you’d better stick to loud bangs and disappearings. Or at least get new glasses.”

Harry had to stifle his laughter as Professor Trelawney gazed in their direction. “Okay,” he said quickly, pushing his cup toward Draco, “your turn, go on and do better if you can.”

Draco raised his eyebrows. “Hard to do worse,” he said dryly, and peered into Harry’s cup. “Well, let’s see,” he said, “this little blob might be an acorn, that would be...” He scanned his copy of _Unfogging the Future_. “ ‘A windfall, unexpected gold,’ ” he announced. “Boring, what else do you have?” He turned the cup again. “This might be some sort of animal, maybe a hippo or a pig...or possibly Longbottom, it’s hard to tell...”

Professor Trelawney whirled around as Harry let out a snort of laughter.

“Let me see that, my dear,” she said reprovingly to Draco, sweeping over and snatching Harry’s cup from him. Everyone went quiet to watch.

Professor Trelawney was staring into the teacup, rotating it counterclockwise.

“The falcon...my dear, you have a deadly enemy.”

“Do you really?” Draco whispered to Harry. “Imagine that.” Harry bit his lip to keep from laughing.

If Professor Trelawney heard, she chose not to reply. She continued to turn his cup. “The club...an attack. Dear, dear, this is not a happy cup...”

“Probably a Beater’s Bat,” Draco muttered. “Someone should warn Flint.” Harry kicked Draco under the table.

“The skull...danger in your path, my dear....”

“Or a dementor in your past,” Draco whispered. “I think her Inner Eye needs moved ahead a few hours.” Harry grinned, but thinking about dementors unsettled him. He turned back to the glittering professor, who was still peering into his teacup.

Everyone else was staring, transfixed, at Professor Trelawney, who gave the cup a final turn, gasped, and then screamed.

There was another tinkle of breaking china; Crabbe and Goyle had upended their entire table, sending their blue-patterned cups flying. Daphne shrieked, and batted at the clump of tea leaves clinging to her robes. Professor Trelawney sank into a vacant armchair, her glittering hand at her heart and her eyes closed.

“My dear boy...my poor, dear boy...no...it is kinder not to say...no...don’t ask me...”

“What is it, Professor?” said Millicent at once. Everyone had got to their feet, and slowly they crowded around Harry and Draco’s table, pressing close to Professor Trelawney’s chair to get a good look at Harry’s cup.

“My dear,” Professor Trelawney’s huge eyes opened dramatically, “you have the Grim.”

“The what?” said Harry.

He could tell that he was the only one who didn’t understand. Everybody else clapped their hands to their mouths in horror, and Draco knocked his chair over backing away from Harry.

“The Grim, my dear, the Grim!” cried Professor Trelawney, who looked shocked that Harry hadn’t understood. “The giant, spectral dog that haunts churchyards! My dear boy, it is an omen—the worst omen—of _death!_ ”

Harry’s stomach lurched. That dog on the cover of _Death Omens_ in Flourish and Blotts—the dog in the shadows of Magnolia Crescent...Daphne gave a little shout, and she and Millicent clutched one another fearfully. Everyone was looking at Harry, everyone except Draco, who was looking at his own feet.

“How—how long?” Lilian whispered. “Professor, how long does he have?”

“It is impossible to say,” Professor Trelawney intoned solemnly. “All that is clear, is that Death has marked poor Mister Potter as its own, and it will not be long in coming.”

There was a long silence, broken by Gregory Goyle. “Looks more like a hippo to me,” he said dully, studying Harry’s cup.

Someone tittered nervously.

“My boy,” Professor Trelawney said flatly, “you will forgive me, but I must say that I perceive very little aura around you. Very little receptivity to the resonances of the future.”

“Reson—what?” Goyle asked.

Trelawney smiled at him. “Best to leave these things in the hands of the professionals,” she soothed Goyle, patting him on his bristly head.

“I’m not sure it looks much like a Grim either,” Millicent Bulstrode said softly. “I see more of a...a cat, really...”

“When you’ve all finished deciding whether I’m going to die or not!” said Harry, taking even himself by surprise. Now nobody seemed to want to look at him.

“I think we will leave the lesson here for today,” said Professor Trelawney in her mistiest voice. “Yes...please pack away your things....”

Silently the class took their teacups back to Professor Trelawney, except for Crabbe and Goyle who needed the broom again. They packed away their bags and closed their books. Draco was still avoiding Harry’s eyes, and so was everyone else.

“Until we meet again,” said Professor Trelawney faintly, “fair fortune be yours. Oh, and dear” —she pointed at Crabbe— “you’re going to forget your first homework assignment, but don’t worry, we’ll be able to work something out to keep you from falling too far behind.”

Draco practically bolted down Professor Trelawney’s ladder. Harry, Crabbe, and Goyle followed in silence, then stopped dead. A crowd of Gryffindor fifth years was already assembled down below, making the narrow landing very crowded indeed. The Slytherin students carefully pushed their way forward, Harry sticking close to Goyle’s heels to let the larger boy clear a path. They edged away down the hallway, past the crowd. The Weasley twins were loitering around the corner, looking mischievous; Harry moved to walk on the other side of Goyle, ducking his head to stay out of sight. Harry walked a little faster, catching up with the slow-moving clump of girls in front of them as they passed the twins.

“What an unbearable gift,” Lilian was saying breathily, “always being able to see when the worst is coming, when ordinary people haven’t a clue...it must be _such_ a burden for her...”

“Probably not as much of a burden as it is for Potter,” Daphne said tartly. “Did you see his face when Professor Trelawney told him he had the Grim?”

“I thought he was going to faint,” Lilian sighed. “I know I would have!”

“What’s this, Potter?” one of the Weasley twins asked, looking up with a grin. “You fainting again?”

“For your information,” Lilian said dramatically, turning to face the identical red-heads, “Harry Potter is going to die!” She blinked heavily, as if fighting back tears.

“Really,” said one of the twins.

“Bad luck, mate,” said the other.

“Oh, it’s not luck,” Lilian argued breathlessly. “It’s _fate_. Professor Trelawney saw it in his teacup. He’s got the Grim.”

The Weasley twins turned to look at Harry. So did the Slytherins. Harry wished he had his Invisibility Cloak in his bag, and could disappear.

“Got the Grim in your teacup, huh?” said one of the Weasley twins.

“Does sugar help that taste any?” the other asked.

“Either way, it’s pretty bad news,” said the first.

“That it is, George,” said the second, who must be Fred.

“It’s the worst news of all!” Millicent cried. She sounded almost proud.

“You must be just overcome,” said George Weasley.

“Positively wobbly on your feet,” said Fred Weasley.

“We should do something for the poor boy, Fred.”

“That we should, George. What do you think is best, a pillow, or are we going to need a whole mattress?”

“I dunno, Fred. How faint do you feel, Potter? Do you need a whole big mattress to catch you, or do you think you can manage to swoon onto a pillow?”

“This is no joking matter,” Daphne scolded them. “This is life and death!”

“Pretty much just sounds like death to me,” said George Weasley, shrugging.

“True,” said Fred cheerfully, “the Grim pretty much just means one thing, and it isn’t life. How about that pillow then, Potter?”

“How about you smother yourself with your bloody pillow?” Harry snarled.

He stomped away down the hallway, the Weasley twins laughing behind him.

 

Harry spent Charms Class trying to ignore the way the other students kept staring at him. Everyone spoke in hushed whispers, and Daphne and Lilian sighed and dabbed at their eyes whenever Harry caught them staring at him. Harry broke three quill tips and finally had to borrow one from Theodore Nott. As one of the few Slytherins who wasn’t taking Divination, Theodore was almost the only person not treating Harry like he was on his deathbed.

Harry was glad he hadn’t mentioned the dog in Magnolia Crescent to his friends. They were frightened enough already.

“Okay,” Harry finally asked over lunch, “is the Grim really that bad?”

“I had an aunt die ‘cause of it,” Goyle said brightly. “Or maybe a great-aunt. I don’t really remember.”

“Did it...did the Grim eat her, or...?”

“Nah,” Goyle shook his head, “the Grim don’t eat people. It just kinda shows up, and when you see it, you know you’re gonna die.” He shoveled a heaping spoonful of stew into his mouth and chewed noisily.

Harry made a face. “Well that sounds stupid,” he said firmly. “Just ‘cause someone sees a big black dog—I’ll bet Professor Trelawney didn’t even see a Grim. She was just making it up to scare us.”

“Think it worked,” Crabbe muttered, glancing at Draco. He was pushing his pudding around on his plate listlessly, not looking at anyone. He was still very pale, and hadn’t spoken once since they left the Divination classroom.

“Something wrong?” Harry asked lightly.

Draco wouldn’t look at him. Instead he spoke to his lunch: “I should have listened to father. I’m sorry, Harry. It—it _is_ too dangerous to be near you. He was right. We need to stay away from you—at least until Sirius Black is caught. Or until he....” Draco’s voice trailed off.

Harry felt like someone had poured cold water over his head. “You don’t actually think I'm going to die, do you?” he asked. “Just because of a clump of tea leaves?”

Draco shrugged, still looking down. Crabbe and Goyle edged away from Harry on the bench.

“Great,” said Harry. He slammed his fork down on the table. “Well, I guess I’ll see you in Potions—unless you think it’s too dangerous to share a classroom with me.”

Without waiting for his friends to answer, Harry stomped away from the table. He ignored the mournful sighs from Lilian and her friends as he walked past them. Harry walked out to the courtyard, where a crowd of students had gathered around Seamus Finnegan.

The Gryffindor boy had his robes hiked up, showing off where the hippogriff had attacked him. The ugly red line ran across Finnegan’s back from his shoulder down almost to the waistband of his trousers. “A couple more inches and it would have got my spine!” Finnegan said cheerfully. Everybody gasped.

“Whoa!” said Dean Thomas.

“Wicked!” said Ron Weasley.

“Pathetic,” said Harry.

Everyone turned to look at him.

“Do you call that a cut?” Harry sneered. “It probably won’t even scar. Then what will remind you not to be an idiot?”

“You think you’re the only one entitled to scars, Potter?” Thomas demanded.

“At least I didn’t get mine by annoying a giant chicken,” Harry retorted.

“You want another one?” Finnegan demanded, yanking his robes back into place.

“Am I suppose to be scared of somebody who can’t even handle a dumb old hippogriff?” Harry said with a laugh. “I know you spent most of the class rolling around on the ground screaming like a baby,” Harry smirked, “so I can understand if you missed the part where I rode one like a broomstick...”

“I’ll give you something to be scared of,” Finnegan said, his face mottled with embarrassment.

“Potter scared?”

“What else is new?”

Harry turned around to face the new voices. Fred and George Weasley came ambling across the courtyard wearing identical grins.

“Seen any dementors lately, Potter?”

“Or maybe a cup of tea?”

“Yeah, can’t underestimate the fright a bloke can take from a cup of tea.”

“What’re you two on about?” Ron Weasley asked his brothers.

“Apparently Potter’s seen the Grim,” said one of the twins.

“Yeah, it’s taken a fancy to his teacups,” added the other. “Poor, doomed little mite. He should be dropping dead any day now.”

The Weasley twins made a big show of checking Lee Jordan’s wristwatch, pulling their friend's arm this way and that. Several people laughed.

“How do you feel, Potter?” one of the twins asked him.

“Going weak kneed? Need somebody to catch you, Potter?” said the other.

“George, I feel faint! Oh, someone save me from my teacup...” Fred Weasley flung himself backwards. His twin brother and Lee Jordan, laughing, caught the swooning Gryffindor boy, and started shouting for smelling salts and water, patting Fred’s grinning cheeks and fanning him with their hands. Everyone laughed.

Harry could feel his face grow hot, but he didn’t dare start a fight with three fifth years. He wished he hadn’t left lunch without his friends. Crabbe and Goyle’s muscles would have come in handy, and Draco never seemed to be at a loss for words. Harry tried to think of something scathing to say, but couldn’t come up with anything.

“Leave him alone.”

Harry turned around to see little Ginny Weasley, the twins’ younger sister, come stomping up to the crowd. Fred lurched back to his feet, and both twins and Lee Jordan stared at her.

“What’s that, then?” Fred Weasley asked, grinning.

“You defending Potter, Gin?” said George.

“You lost your mind, Gin?” Lee Jordan asked, echoing his friends’ amused tones.

“Stop being so horrid,” Ginny said. “You’re not as funny as you think you are.”

“Pretty sure we are, actually,” said George Weasley. The crowd laughed.

“I bet mum won’t think it’s funny,” Ginny snapped.

The twins went pale beneath their freckles. “Here now,” said Fred, “there’s no need for that...”

“You turning into Percy on us?” George asked darkly.

“Just leave him alone!” Ginny squeaked.

The twins and Lee Jordan looked at each other and exchanged a shrug. “Well, if it means that much to you,” Fred muttered. The three boys walked away, Lee Jordan whistling. George pointed to his wrist, as if checking the time, and gave Harry a threatening sort of nod.

Harry looked at Ginny. “Thanks,” he said.

Ginny Weasley turned as red as her hair. She ran out of the courtyard to a chorus of giggles.

Harry shrugged. Apparently saving a girl from the diary of a Dark Lord earned a bloke some loyalty.

 

Harry stomped into Potions and took a seat all the way in the back of the room by himself. The rest of the class trickled in from lunch, most of the Slytherins shooting worried looks at Harry and then avoiding his eye. Crabbe and Goyle glanced at him, but followed Draco to his usual seat at the front of the classroom, right in front of Snape’s desk. Harry looked for Hermione among the Gryffindors, but couldn’t spot her bushy mane in the crowd.

Snape swept in with a billow of dark robes, his sallow face pinched and even grumpier than usual. Harry kept his head down over his book. Harry’s relationship with his head of house was strained, for reasons Harry had never been entirely able to figure out, and Snape was short-tempered even with the students he _liked_. Harry wasn’t sure if he fell into that category yet or not, so he usually tried to err on the side of caution and was as polite to Snape as possible.

“Open your books to page twenty-five,” Snape said curtly, without so much as a “good afternoon, class.” His black eyes glittered sharply as he raked his gaze across the students for any trace of lollygagging. “Today we will be making a simple but deadly poison, to test how much knowledge you’ve retained over the summer, and how much you let seep heedlessly out your ears on your holidays. Your ingredients are on the table by the—what _is_ it, Miss Moon?”

Lilian, her eyes very wide, had her hand up. Her lip trembled when she spoke. “Please, sir,” Lilian said, “we can’t brew poisons today!”

Snape’s eyebrow raised dangerously. “And precisely why not?” he asked. Harry tried to shrink down in his seat. Tracey, sitting next to her friend, did the same. Even Lilian quailed, but she kept her trembling hand resolutely in the air. “Because, sir,” she said breathlessly, “if we brew a poison—Harry Potter will _die!”_

Silence met Lilian’s pronouncement. Harry could see the Gryffindor students turning to look curiously at him, while most of the Slytherins nodded soberly. In the front of the room Draco kept his head down; Harry did the same, as if his desk held some fascinating, minuscule writing that he was trying to read. Snape stared at Lilian, his black eyes intense. Tracey edged her chair away from her friend.

After a long moment, Snape finally asked, “Why?”

Lilian, Daphne, and Millicent all spoke at once:

“We were in Divination this morning, and—”

“Professor Trelawney said it was certain—”

“All the Signs indicate he’s doomed, a poison would tempt fate too far—”

Snape held up a hand and the girls fell abruptly silent. “Professor Trelawney predicted Potter’s death?” he asked. His voice sounded stuffy, like he had developed a sudden head-cold.

The girls, and most of the other Slytherins, nodded. Harry toyed with his quill, as if he had never seen anything as interesting as a feather before, and refused to look up to meet Snape’s eyes. He could hear a low whisper from the Gryffindors’ side of the room, but they fell silent when Snape spoke again:

“And how did she say it?” he asked. “Precisely?” Snape’s voice was tight. Harry couldn’t help himself, he looked up at the Potions Master. Snape’s face was as sallow as always, but he seemed strangely tense. Harry wondered if Snape was thinking that Harry was too risky to keep in class; if he died during a lesson on poisons, Snape might get blamed. Would Snape be so afraid of Trelawney’s prediction that he would order Harry out of the classroom? How many points would he lose if he couldn’t turn in any Potions work all term? Harry’s heart sank even lower when he realized that Snape was staring at him, waiting for Harry to answer.

Harry sighed, and squared his shoulders. He might as well get it over with. “Well,” he said glumly, “she was looking at my tea leaves, and she saw a Gri—”

“Ahh,” Snape said, suddenly relaxing, “I wouldn’t worry about it too much, Potter. Tea-reading is a very inexact and messy form of Divination, and rarely accurate. I dare say you’ll need to concern yourself with today’s grade after all, but of course I would not be so crass as to deduct points from Slytherin should your sudden demise prevent you from completing your assignment. You can all relax.”

“Sir, isn’t tea-reading related to Potions?”

“Just because something involves liquids and herbs, Miss Greengrass, does not mean that it has anything to do with Potions,” Snape said, his voice suddenly waspish. “In this class we focus on facts, measurements, and reliable results.” He started pacing in front of the room, glaring at the students. “Each properly brewed Aconite Draught you and your classmates produce today will do exactly the same as every other—taking into account of course your individual levels of competence. Potions,” Snape continued sharply, “is not affected by the stars, or the humours, or the vapors, or any of that nonsense—Potions is definitive.” He stopped sharply and pointed at the blackboard, on which their instructions were written. “And you will all definitely fail if you do not turn your full attention to your assignment, and prove to me that you are capable of producing reliable, duplicable results, no matter what house Mars may be dallying in this afternoon.”

The class got to work right away, none of them needing Divination to tell them that annoying Snape would be detrimental to their futures. Harry pulled his own pile of aconite leaves toward him and began shredding the stems. He felt a little better. It was hard to be scared of a lump of damp tea leaves away from the dim red light and befuddling perfume of Professor Trelawney’s classroom. In Snape’s chilly dungeon where everything was painfully clean and orderly, death omens seemed rather silly.

Not everyone seemed convinced, though. Draco still looked worried, and Lilian and Daphne kept sneaking mournful glances at Harry, as if they were waiting for him to drop dead any second.

Hermione had come in at some point without Harry noticing, and he caught her eye across the room. She was sitting with Neville Longbottom, trying to help him stop his cauldron from smoking, but she appeared to be distracted by the whispers that kept emanating from the Slytherins. Hermione noticed Harry looking at her and rolled her eyes.

Harry grinned. At least one of his friends didn’t think he was doomed—and neither did Snape. The Potions Master kept stalking around the back of the room, peering over Harry’s shoulder and making sharp comments about his imperfect potion. Harry was kept sweating all class as he tried to adjust the brew according to Snape’s exacting standards. When class finally ended, Harry’s potion was the exact lilac color the book described, and he was too exhausted to worry about anything, least of all the Grim.

Harry set his potion on Snape’s desk and was pleased to note that only three other bottles—Hermione’s, Draco’s, and Theodore’s—were as nicely colored as his own. For once, Harry thought he might have earned full marks on a potion without Draco’s help.Even Snape seemed pleased, muttering a dour, “Well done, Potter,” as his black eyes flicked over Harry’s potion.

“Yes,” Hermione said in a loud voice, looking over her shoulder at the Gryffindors, “I think that looks just like a deadly Aconite Draught, and yet Harry is still alive. It seems like Professor Trelawney’s predictive skills are just as spot-on when it comes to poisons as they are with hippogriffs.”

The other girls in her house looked very offended and pointedly turned their backs on Hermione. Harry walked over to her where she stood shoving quite a lot of books into her already bulging school bag.

“What did Trelawney say about hippogriffs?” Harry asked, trying to sound casual.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Nothing,” she said harshly. “But she ‘predicted’ a horrible accident for one of us yesterday, so of course everyone has now decided that she meant Seamus, never mind that he’s not even _in_ the class and the hippogriff barely so much as scratched him.”

Harry, remembering the blood spattering on the ground, thought it had been rather more than a scratch but prudently said nothing. Hermione didn’t look like she was in the mood for an argument.

Blaise Zabini, a smug sneer on his dark face, shoved between Harry and Hermione on his way to the door, making Harry stumble. “Shame she got that one wrong,” Blaise observed coolly. His eyes lingered on Harry. “Better luck next time,” he added with an unkind laugh.

Harry ignored him.

“Personally,” Hermione said primly, not even looking at Blaise, “I think Divination seems like a very woolly subject, just like Professor Snape said. I wouldn’t give anything that woman told you any credit, Harry, and I think anyone who does must have a very soft mind.”

Draco, who had been walking past with Crabbe and Goyle, looked sharply offended. Hermione didn’t seem to notice. She swung her overloaded bag over her shoulder and started off, Harry quickly trotting to keep up. They were stopped at the door by Snape, who was holding up a bottle with a murky, marbled purple liquid in it. “Miss Granger,” he said coolly.

Hermione turned back to talk to the Potions Master while Harry hurried on, not wanting to risk Snape’s displeasure by idling. “I believe I have spoken to you before about doing Longbottom’s work for him,” Harry heard Snape saying, and Hermoine’s shrill answer of, “Please sir, I was just trying to help—” which was quickly cut off by Snape’s sharp retort of, “The only thing you are helping Longbottom to learn is how to let someone else do his work for him. And the next time I catch you doing so, I will take points for it. Good afternoon, Miss Granger.”

Harry turned back to wait for Hermione, but she was nowhere to be seen. Snape was just shutting his classroom door and for a moment his black eyes fixed on Harry’s green ones. Harry quickly forced a smile. Snape did not return the expression, but nodded curtly and slammed the door shut. Harry looked around for Hermione, wondering where she could have gone; there was only one set of stairs leading up from this part of the dungeon. There was no sign of the bushy-haired Gryffindor girl, so Harry shrugged and hurried to catch up with the rest of the Slytherins.

 

Despite his hurry, Harry seemed to be the last Slytherin to arrive at the Great Hall. He looked around the packed table for a good seat, but the only empty spaces he saw were either near very intimidating sixth and seventh years, or next to Draco. Grimacing, Harry took the space by Draco, carefully looking the other direction so that his friends wouldn’t think he was trying to crowd them. Goyle saw him come in and smiled guilelessly at Harry across the table. Harry grinned back, then quickly sobered and chanced a glance at the other two. Crabbe was too focused on his shepherd’s pie to pay attention to anyone. Draco was picking idly at his food, but didn’t look up when Harry sat down, or tell him to go away.

Harry poured himself a glass of pumpkin juice and looked around the Great Hall.

Hermione was already at the Gryffindor table, sitting by herself with a book in her hands. Several seats away from her, Seamus Finnigan was holding court again. Harry wondered how many times a person could tell the same story before everyone got bored with it, but the Gryffindors seemed to be hanging on every word. Even little Ginny Weasley was staring at him with rapt fascination.

Harry gave a derisive snort and turned away.

He turned just in time to catch Draco staring at him, but he quickly looked down at his food again when Harry saw him.

Harry frowned. He started cutting his bangers rather harder than necessary. “Snape doesn’t seem to think I’m going to die, just because there was a dog in my tea leaves,” he said.

Draco shrugged, not meeting Harry’s eye.

“And Snape probably knows all about Sirius Black wanting to kill me,” Harry pressed on. “You ever notice how he seems to know just about everything that goes on around here?”

Draco shrugged again. He started poking holes in a pumpkin muffin with his fork.

Harry spent a few minutes thinking while he chewed his bangers and mash. He swallowed a large mouthful of potatoes too fast when something occurred to him, and had to drink quite a lot of pumpkin juice to wash it down.

When his throat was clear again, Harry turned around to face Draco. “We saw your teacup too,” he said, “and there wasn’t anything like a Grim in it, or anything scary at all. So even if Trelawney is right, and Sirius Black _is_ going to kill me, you won’t be hurt.”

Draco finally brightened up.

“That’s a good point,” he said. “And anyway, it’s just a teacup—who cares what that old bat saw, right?”

Harry raised an eyebrow, but decided not to say anything.

 

 

 

 


	7. The Boggart in the Wardrobe

On Wednesday the Slytherins finally had Defense Against the Dark Arts with Professor Lupin, right after lunch. Harry noticed that despite Draco’s unimpressed observations about the state of Lupin’s robes, he was right at the front of the group of students hurrying into Lupin’s classroom. The Slytherins, eager to see what their new teacher was like, had all arrived early. Professor Lupin wasn’t even there yet. They all sat down, took out their books, quills, and parchment, and were talking when he finally entered the room. Lupin smiled vaguely and placed his tatty old briefcase on the teacher’s desk. He was as shabby as ever but looked healthier than he had on the train, as though he had had a few square meals.

“Good afternoon,” he said. “Would you please put all your books back in your bags. Today’s will be a practical lesson. You will need only your wands.”

A few curious looks were exchanged as the class put away their books. They had never had a practical Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson before, although Harry and his friends had engaged in some perilous extra-curricular studies last year.

“Right then,” said Professor Lupin, when everyone was ready. “If you’d follow me.”

Puzzled but interested, the class got to their feet and followed Professor Lupin out of the classroom. He led them along the deserted corridors to the teachers’ staffroom, where he stopped outside the door.

“Inside, please,” said Professor Lupin, opening it and standing back.

The staffroom, a long, paneled room full of old, mismatched chairs, was empty except for one teacher. Professor McGonagall was sitting in a high-backed armchair, a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ unfolded in her hands. Her eyebrows raised as she looked around at the class filing in. “Ah,” McGonagall said, “the Slytherins—of course. It would be their turn next, wouldn’t it.” Before the class could do more than whisper about that foreboding pronouncement, McGonagall levered herself stiffly to her feet. She walked toward them as Professor Lupin came in and made to close the door behind him.

“One moment there,” Professor McGonagall said, “I’m just on my way out, Remus.”

“You may certainly stay and observe the lesson if you like,” Professor Lupin said politely. “I’m sorry to disturb your peace and quiet at any rate, but you needn’t leave if you don’t—”

But Professor McGonagall was shaking her head, a small smile on her stern face. “No, no,” she said, “you don’t need me looking over your shoulder. Besides, I’m sure I shall hear all about it soon enough,” she added with a cool look at Pansy Parkinson, who was renowned for being one of the biggest gossips at Hogwarts. Pansy flushed but said nothing; not even she would talk back to Professor McGonagall. “I do have them next, after all,” the Transfiguration professor finished blandly and left.

Lupin stood back so McGonagall could pass, then he snugged the door shut behind her and turned to face the class. “Well then,” he said mildly, “shall we get started?” Lupin beckoned the class toward the end of the room, where there was nothing but an old wardrobe where the teachers kept their spare robes. As Professor Lupin went to stand next to it, the wardrobe gave a sudden wobble, banging off the wall.

“Nothing to worry about,” said Professor Lupin calmly because a few people had jumped backward in alarm. “There’s a boggart in there.”

Most people seemed to feel that this was something to worry about. Daphne Greengrass squeaked and clutched at Pansy’s shoulder, and Draco edged back behind Crabbe. Harry eyed the now rattling doorknob nervously, but resisted the urge to hide behind Goyle.

“Boggarts like dark, enclosed spaces,” said Professor Lupin. “Wardrobes, the gap beneath beds, the cupboards under sinks—I’ve even met one that had lodged itself in a grandfather clock. This one moved in just today, and I asked the headmaster if the staff would leave it to give my third years some practice.

“So, the first question we must ask ourselves is, what is a boggart?”

The class looked nervously at each other, and eventually a few hands crept tentatively into the air. Lupin ignored them and pointed at Goyle, who was staring fixedly at the wardrobe with an expression of rapt horror. “Er—Gregory, isn’t it? Go on, then. Give us your best guess.”

“It’s a bogey,” said Goyle. The class laughed. Lupin smiled. “Ah,” he said, “I see what you’re getting at...yes, it is a sort of bogey-man, that’s correct. Not,” he added dryly, raising his eyebrow at the students who were still snickering, “a lump of snot. A boggart,” Professor Lupin explained, “is a shape-shifter. It uses its mild telepathic sensitivity to select a shape that the viewer will find frightening, which means—anyone?”

The class shrugged at one another nervously, and Tracey Davis hesitantly raised her hand. “No one knows what they really look like?” she ventured, when Lupin nodded at her.

“Correct,” he said. “The boggart sitting in the dark in there has not yet assumed a shape, but when I let him out, he will immediately become whatever each of us most fears. This means,” Professor Lupin continued, speaking loudly over the buzz of nervous whispers, “that we have a huge advantage over the boggart before we begin. Have you spotted it, Harry?”

“Huh?” said Harry. He wrenched his eyes away from the wardrobe and stared at Professor Lupin. “Oh, er—because there are so many of us, it won’t know what shape it should be?”

“Precisely,” said Professor Lupin, and Harry smiled nervously. “It’s always best to have company when you’re dealing with a boggart. He becomes confused. Which should he become, a headless corpse or a flesh-eating slug? I once saw a boggart make that very mistake—tried to frighten two people at once and turned himself into half a slug. Not remotely frightening.

“The charm that repels a boggart is simple, yet it requires force of mind. You see, the thing that really finishes a boggart is laughter. What you need to do is force it to assume a shape that you find amusing.

“We will practice the charm without wands first. After me, please... _riddikulus!”_

“ _Riddikulus!”_ said the class together.

“Good,” said Professor Lupin. “Very good. But that was the easy part, I’m afraid. You see, the word alone is not enough. This charm requires both creativity and concentration. May I have a volunteer?”

The entire class took a step backward. Lupin didn’t seem to notice, but pointed to a boy in the front row: “Theodore, isn’t it?” Professor Lupin asked. Theodore Nott, looking very pale, nodded. “What is the most frightening thing you can think of, Theodore?”

Theodore hunched his shoulders, looking like a remarkably skinny turtle, then muttered, “my mother.”

Lupin nodded calmly, as if this was not an awkward answer, while the rest of the class shuffled their feet and looked at the ground. “And what about your mother do you find frightening?” he asked.

“Well she’s dead,” Theodore replied, his lips twitching into a crooked smirk. “So I expect seeing her come back into the room would be rather distressing.”

There was a chorus of relieved giggles and Harry could feel the class relax a bit around him. He only noticed the worried lines that had tensed around Professor Lupin’s tired eyes when they smoothed away.

“Ah,” Lupin said, “I see. Well tell me Theodore, have you ever seen a Muggle zombie flick?”

Harry, seeing what Lupin was getting at, started to grin but Theodore shook his head. “A what?”

“Never mind,” Lupin said quickly. “What about puppet shows? Marionettes?”

“Of course,” said Theodore.

“Well, what if you could turn your—er—your dead mother into a puppet?”

Theodore looked startled, then started to smile. “That could be funny,” he agreed.

“Well then,” Lupin said, “I am going to open the wardrobe. When I do so, the boggart will assume the shape of your—er—your mother, and you will raise your wand—thus—and cry ‘ _Ridikulus’—_ and concentrate hard on the image of a marionette. If all goes well, she will take the shape of a puppet instead.”

Theodore nodded seriously, and held his wand up.

Professor Lupin turned to face the rest of the class. “If Theodore is successful, the boggart is likely to shift his attention to each of us in turn,” he said. “I would like all of you to take a moment now to think of the thing that scares you most, and imagine how you might force it to look comical....”

The room went quiet. Harry thought....What scared him most in the world?

His first thought was Lord Voldemort—a Voldemort returned to full strength. But before he had even started to plan a possible counterattack on a Boggart-Voldemort, a horrible image came floating to the surface of his mind...

A rotting, glistening hand, slithering back beneath a black cloak...a long, rattling breath from an unseen mouth...then a cold so penetrating it felt like drowning....

Harry shivered, then looked around, hoping no one had noticed. Many people had their eyes shut tight. Pansy was muttering, “make its hair fall out.” Harry wondered what she was thinking about.

“Everyone ready?” said Professor Lupin.

Harry felt a lurch of fear. He wasn’t ready. How could you make a Dementor less frightening? But he didn’t want to ask for more time; everyone else was nodding and rolling up their sleeves.

“Theodore, we’re going to back away,” said Professor Lupin. “Let you have a clear field, all right? I’ll call the next person forward.... Everyone back, now, so Theodore can get a clear shot—”

They all retreated, backed against the walls, leaving Theodore alone beside the wardrobe. He looked pale and wobbly, but his pinched face was drawn in a frown of concentration and he was holding his wand at the ready.

“On the count of three, Theodore,” said Professor Lupin, who was pointing his own wand at the handle of the wardrobe. “One—two—three—now!”

A jet of sparks shot from the end of Professor Lupin’s wand and hit the doorknob. The wardrobe burst open. A short, emaciated witch stepped out. Her skin was grayish and mottled with decay and her hair was a wispy birds-nest of dirty brown tangles. Her glassy eyes looked like they were covered with cataracts but they focused blearily on Theodore.

He looked up coolly while everyone else backed away. The Mrs. Nott-Boggart raised withered arms and reached for him with her bony fingers. Theodore didn’t move until she had nearly grasped his sleeve. Then Theodore pointed his own wand, and said calmly, “ _Riddikulus_.”

There was a noise like a whip-crack and Mrs. Nott suddenly shrank to the size of a large doll. Her dead flesh turned into wood, her limbs jerked backwards as strings materialized tying her to a control cross. She bounced up and down in the air, her robes flouncing to reveal bright purple polka-dot bloomers.

Theodore only smiled, but the rest of the class laughed. “Nice touch,” Lupin said proudly, nodding at the bloomers. Theodore grinned. “Right—Millicent!” shouted Professor Lupin. “You’re next!”

Her square face set in an attitude of extreme determination, Millicent Bulstrode stepped forward. The Boggart-Nott puppet wrenched free of her strings and turned toward Millicent. There was another _crack_ , and suddenly where the marionette had stood there was a very large moth hovering in the air, hairy proboscises uncurling under its face.

Millicent shuddered, and Harry heard one of the girls behind him say, “Ew,” very loudly. The moth advanced on Millicent, its great wings beating wetly.

“ _Ridikulus,”_ snarled Millicent.

The moth’s wings suddenly wrapped tightly around it, spiraling into a cocoon, and it fell from the air. It hit the ground with a disgusting wet slap and rolled around in feeble circles on the floor. Millicent raised a heavy foot, but Lupin was already urging the next student forward, and he tugged the dark-haired girl out of Blaise’s way.

 _Crack!_ Where the moth had been, there was now a harpy: an ugly combination of woman and bird, her steely talons scratching the floor. The harpy shot into the air, bearing down on Blaise. Looking paler than usual but otherwise unworried, Blaise raised his wand and snapped, “ _Ridikulus.”_

 _Crack!_ The boggart suddenly molted, hitting the ground again as an ugly, naked chick. Blaise snorted with snide laughter.

“Gregory!” shouted Professor Lupin.

Goyle stomped forward. _Crack!_ Several people screamed. Where the bald baby bird had been, there was suddenly an enormous great snake, its scales a lurid shade of green and its great yellow eyes glowing in the dark shadows of the room’s ceiling, which its tall head scraped against. Harry’s jaw dropped. Next to him, he heard Draco scrambling for cover behind Crabbe who was staring, dumbfounded, at the Basilisk.

“Come on, Gregory, think of something funny!” Lupin cried, sounding nervous. The giant snake quested around the room, sniffing, and Harry squeezed his eyes shut before it could turn and face the class, just in case the boggart might have the same powers as a real Basilisk.

“ _R-r-ridikulus_ ,” Goyle stammered, but Harry could tell from the lack of cracking noise, and the fact that he could still hear the giant snake hissing, that it hadn’t worked.

Something sharp poked Harry in the ribs: an elbow. “Close its eyes!” Draco hissed in Harry’s ear.

“What?” said Harry, resisting the urge to look at his friend.

“Tell it not to look at us!” Draco yelped.

“Oh,” said Harry. He swallowed, trying to ignore the shrieks and scuffling sounds coming from their classmates, and thought about snakes. “Close—no, I mean close your... _close your eyes_.” The weird hissing sounds that came out of his mouth were drowned-out by the sound of everybody else panicking, and Professor Lupin trying to restore order, but when Harry risked peeking around he didn’t see anyone lying Petrified—or worse, dead—on the floor, so either the basilisk had heard him or boggarts couldn’t mimic powers along with shapes. Harry closed his eyes again anyway.

Goyle tried the Ridikulus Charm twice more, and then at last there was a sharp _CRACK_. Harry opened his eyes, and for a moment he couldn’t find the boggart at all. Then he spotted a pale, silvery-white orb floating in the air near Professor Lupin’s head, while Goyle backed away, looking shame-faced.

“That’s all right,” Lupin was saying bracingly, patting Goyle on the shoulder, “it takes practice sometimes. All right, Tracey! Your turn!”

Looking very apprehensive, Tracey Davis edged forward, her wand held high. _Crack!_ The sphere turned into a unicorn, whose horn was bloody. Its eyes were red and crazed, and it pawed the ground as it got ready to charge the tall girl. “ _Ridikulus!”_ Tracey squeaked, and the unicorn was suddenly a plush toy, its eyes big, goggling plastic circles and its horn made of floppy cloth. Tracey giggled.

“Draco!” Professor Lupin roared, and Draco, looking pale, hurried past Harry.

 _Crack!_ The boggart changed and Harry suddenly found himself face to face once again with Tom Riddle, more famously called Voldemort. This Riddle was sixteen, dressed in school robes, and looked almost translucent. From the wide-eyed shock on Draco’s bloodless face, he had not been expecting the boggart to take this shape any more than had Harry.

Draco stood there staring, his wand limp in his hand, as fear coiled in Harry’s belly. The rest of the class milled about uncertainly. After the ugly, horrifying forms the boggart had been taking, the handsome teenager glaring at them now seemed out of place, but Harry knew it was the scariest shape so far.

Even Lupin seemed nonplussed as he studied Draco’s boggart. “A...prefect?” he said at last, his voice skeptical.

“I...don’t like losing points,” Draco bluffed, his face white. He glared at Harry and Goyle, the only two who knew who this prefect really was, silently daring them to say anything.

Harry kept his mouth shut. Goyle blinked dumbly.

Professor Lupin shrugged. “Who does?” he said mildly. The class laughed, making Boggart-Riddle stumble, and Draco managed a smile. Riddle’s eyes flashed red and he took a step forward, reaching into his robes for a wand. Draco’s smile vanished. Harry clenched his hands into fists, silently begging for Draco to banish the Boggart-Riddle quickly.

“Go on,” Lupin said encouragingly, “try the charm...”

Draco’s wand wobbled; someone snickered. His pale face went pink and he pointed the wand savagely in the direction of the Boggart-Riddle. “ _Riddikulus_ ,” Draco snapped. The boggart wavered, then solidified back into the shape of teenaged Tom Riddle. Draco frowned.

“Concentrate,” Lupin urged. “You have to picture the shape you want the boggart to assume very clearly—see it in your mind’s eye—”

“I don’t know what shape I want it to assume!” Draco said nervously, backing away as the boggart advanced on him. Riddle opened his mouth and a low hiss came out. “What do I do?” Draco yelped.

“All right,” Professor Lupin said soothingly, “no harm done.” He pulled Draco gently away from the boggart. “Daphne, why don’t you try it next...”

Daphne Greengrass threw her long hair back over her shoulder, then stepped forward, wand raised. The boggart paused, studying her, then with another _crack_ Tom Riddle vanished, replaced with a pair of battered, once-elegant high-heeled shoes.

The shoes walked forward on their own, clattering ominously on the smooth floor. Daphne shivered, pointed her wand, and squeaked, “ _Riddikulus!_ ”

 _Crack!_ The high-heels turned into a pair of rollerskates, which went skittering every-which-way out of control around the room. Daphne giggled and hopped out of their way as they spun in mad circles.

The rollerskates finally slid to a stop at Harry’s feet. He raised his wand, ready, but—

“Here!” shouted Professor Lupin suddenly, hurrying forward. _Crack!_ The silvery-white orb was back. Professor Lupin waved his wand at it, and the orb floated backwards. It seemed to be struggling, but Lupin flicked his wand more forcefully, and with a faint _whooshing_ sound the boggart sailed back into the wardrobe. Professor Lupin slammed the door shut, pointed his wand at the handle, and said, “ _Colloportus_.”

He turned back to the class, looking slightly winded, but smiling nonetheless. “Very well done!” Professor Lupin said. “Unfortunately I have the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs yet to introduce the boggart to, so that will have to be it for today—we don’t want to destroy the thing too early!” He chuckled. “It was definitely near the end of its rope there, though—well done everyone. Let me see...five points to Slytherin for every person to tackle the boggart—two each to Gregory and Draco for trying—and ten for Theodore for being brave enough to go first...and five each to Harry, Gregory, and Tracey.”

“But I didn’t do anything,” said Harry.

“You three answered my questions correctly at the start of the class, Harry,” Lupin said lightly. “Very well, everyone, an excellent lesson. Homework, kindly read the chapter on boggarts and summarize it for me...to be handed in on Monday. That will be all.”

Talking excitedly, the class left the staffroom. Harry, however, wasn’t feeling cheerful. Professor Lupin had deliberately stopped him from tackling the boggart. Why? Was it because he’d seen Harry’s collapse on the train, and thought he wasn’t up to much? Had he thought Harry would pass out again?

But no one else seemed to have noticed anything.

“Did you see what I did to that harpy?” Blaise crowed.

“How about the bloomers on your mum!” Daphne said to Theodore, who smiled thinly.

“And that snake—that was mental! Where did you even come up with that from, Goyle?”

“Wish he hadn’t stopped me squishing the moth,” complained Millicent.

“Yeah, but then the poor little Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs wouldn’t have had anything to do,” Pansy said sadly. Everybody else laughed.

Harry was the only person who wasn’t cheerful—Harry, and Draco. Harry noticed that his friend was wearing a stiff smile, and walking slower than the rest of their classmates—even Crabbe and Goyle—so that everyone else drew ahead. Only when he thought no one else was looking did Draco sag sideways against the wall and close his eyes. Harry saw that he was even paler than usual.

“You all right?” Harry asked.

Draco’s eyes snapped open. “Fine!” he said quickly, grinning in a horribly forced sort of way.

Harry shoved his hands in his pockets. “So...You-Know-Who,” he said casually. “I was a bit surprised to see him, honestly.”

“So was I!” Draco shuddered. “I thought for sure it was going to turn into the Basilisk—I had a plan for _that_ ,” he complained. “I was going to turn it into a jumping rope, like that awful pink sparkly thing Davis has...didn’t know _what_ to do for—for _h-him_.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah,” he said. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

They avoided each other’s eyes for a minute. “What was your plan?” Draco asked quietly.

“For what?” said Harry.

“For—you know— _him_ ,” Draco said, his voice hushed. “I mean, he was going to be your boggart for sure, right?”

“Oh,” said Harry. He thought about Voldemort, but once again the image of a black-clad Dementor swam in front of his eyes. “I dunno,” he said vaguely, “I hadn’t come up with one.”

Draco nodded, looking relieved. “Right,” he said. “Because who _would_ know what to do, about _him_ _?”_

“Exactly,” said Harry, forcing a smile of his own.

He walked slowly down the hall with Draco. Harry tried hard to banish thoughts of glistening hands, rattling breath, and long black cloaks from his mind.

 

Harry and Draco were the last people to arrive for Transfiguration. The first thing out of McGonagall’s mouth once everyone was settled was, “Go on then—how did you like Professor Lupin’s little surprise?” The class burst out in an excited babble, all talking at once, and Harry knew there was no way Professor McGonagall could make out what everyone was saying but she nodded thoughtfully and gave them a few minutes to get it out of their systems. When she finally waved for quiet the Slytherins subsided resentfully.

“All right, I’m glad you’re enjoying your other classes,” McGonagall said, sounding more indulgent than she usually did—Harry wondered if she and Lupin had known each other before he came to Hogwarts, or if she just liked boggarts—“but I would appreciate it if you could focus on _this_ class now.”

Along with everyone else, Harry pulled out his quill and parchment and got ready to take notes. While McGonagall was more fond of practical lessons than some of their teachers, she always liked to start by introducing them to the theory behind the magic.

He spent several minutes making notes on Animagi—wizards who could turn themselves into animals—wondering idly what kind of animal he would turn into, if he had the choice. _Something with wings_ , he decided. Harry hoped it wasn’t a difficult procedure because it sounded like a useful thing to know. He grinned, imagining flying away from Privet Drive with Hedwig, and pictured the Dursleys’ faces when he came back without any explanation for his absence.

“While we will not be attempting the process of becoming Animagi in this class,” McGonagall was saying, “you will need to know the basics for your O.W.L.s so I suggest you all pay close attention and take detailed notes. This is one of the most difficult aspects of Transfiguration magic, and it has terribly high chances of backfiring horribly on those who try it so there are few Animagi in the world. Those who are must register with the Ministry, of course, so we have concrete numbers regarding how many have mastered the spell. There are currently seven.” McGongall let that sink-in for a moment; Harry wasn’t the only person to look visibly impressed, and Blaise whistled aloud.

“One does not consciously determine the form that one can adopt, and one can only learn one animal form. For this reason, as well as the time-consuming process that is required to master the transformation, there are few who find it a worthwhile expenditure—although I must say that I myself have never regretted the effort I spent on it.” Harry looked up in time to catch a bright gleam in McGonagall’s eye, and then without warning she turned into a cat.

Along with everyone else, Harry gasped and applauded. The tabby cat walked back and forth along the edge of McGonagall’s desk a few times, letting everyone get a good look. Aside from some markings around its eyes that seemed to resemble her spectacles, the cat was indistinguishable from any other house cat Harry had ever seen. He would never have realized it was a witch if he’d seen it outside the classroom, and Harry immediately understood why the Ministry kept close-tabs on those who possessed this ability.

McGonagall turned back into her usual self and took a little bow, clearly pleased with the Slytherins’ reaction. She went on to give them a brief overview of the process required to learn such a spell—Harry promptly changed his mind about trying it himself—and then explained the differences between an Animagus transformation and standard Transfiguration. Anyone, it seemed, could turn themselves into an animal if they had the will and the wand, but an Animagus transformation was much more complete, and furthermore didn’t require the wizard attempting it to use a wand or any real effort to transform once they had mastered the magic. Harry had heard of wandless magic before, but this sounded a lot more complicated than any other spell he knew.

He wondered if Animagi were responsible for Muggle stories about werewolves and resolved to look it up later—or better yet, to ask Hermione. He would have raised his hand and asked McGonagall who, for all that she was strict, never laughed at questions even when they were stupid, but he knew his housemates would snicker if he was wrong.

Pansy Parkinson apparently had no such fears, because she raised her hand and asked if a witch could talk when she was transformed into an animal. “No,” McGonagall replied, “contrary to what you might have read in _Babbitty Rabbity_ , an Animagus when transformed is a _true_ animal: one maintains one’s ability to think and reason like a human, yes, but one does not have any special powers, access to magic—or to speech.” The rest of the class giggled and Pansy looked offended.

Harry was glad he hadn’t asked about werewolves. He grinned at Pansy’s scowl and continued to take notes, happier than he had been at the start of the lesson. Transfiguration wasn’t Harry’s strongest subject but he wasn’t a slouch at it either. It was nice to feel competent at something, after Lupin’s lesson on boggarts.

 

In no time at all, Defense Against the Dark Arts had become most people’s favorite class. Draco and some of their other housemates still complained about Professor Lupin’s shabby appearance, but no one had anything bad to say about his classwork or teaching style—even Harry.

His next few lessons were just as interesting as the first. After boggarts, they studied Red Caps, nasty little goblinlike creatures that lurked wherever there had been bloodshed: in the dungeons of castles and the potholes of deserted battlefields, waiting to bludgeon those who had gotten lost. From Red Caps they moved on to kappas, creepy water-dwellers that looked like scaley monkeys, with webbed hands itching to strangle unwitting waders in their ponds. Lupin didn’t stop Harry participating again, which was a relief; perhaps he had forgotten about the dementor on the train.

Harry only wished he was as happy with some of his other classes. Worst of all was Potions. Snape was in a particularly vindictive mood these days, treating Harry as coldly as he had on Harry’s first day at Hogwarts. The whole school knew why he was so short-tempered: When the Gryffindor third years had had their turn with the boggart, Snape had made an appearance—not Snape himself, but a boggart version, apparently Neville Longbottom’s biggest fear. Longbottom had chosen to force the Snape-Boggart into his grandmother’s customary clothing, and the story of Professor Snape with a handbag and a vulture hat had traveled through the school like wildfire. Snape didn’t seem to find it funny. His eyes flashed menacingly at the very mention of Professor Lupin’s name, and Harry would have given all the gold he had in Gringotts not to be in Longbottom’s shoes.

Harry was also growing to dread the hours he spent in Professor Trelawney’s stifling tower room, deciphering lopsided shapes and symbols, trying to ignore the way that Trelawney’s enourmous eyes filled with tears every time she looked at him. He couldn’t like Professor Trelawney, even though she was treated with respect bordering on reverence by many of the class. Daphne had declared her “an over-dramatic busybody,” but only after making sure that her little sister was all right, and Harry noticed that she still hung on Trelawney’s every prediction. She was hardly the worst, though: Lilian had started wearing shawls of her own and always arrived early for class. She sighed a lot whenever she talked to Harry too, as though he had some incurable chronic disease.

Draco, in a smug attempt to thwart Trelawney, had made certain to remember Crabbe’s first homework assignment for him. Trelawney, unperturbed, had asked Crabbe, “Ah, but did _you_ remember it?” with such a knowing look in her big beetle eyes that Crabbe had confessed on the spot. Trelawney tut-tutted and treated them all to a lofty lecture about the dangers of trying to escape one’s fate. Draco sulked for the rest of the afternoon.

Even Care of Magical Creatures, out in the crisp autumn sunshine with Hagrid, did little to lift Harry’s spirits. Hagrid had not been fired, but he wasn’t a popular teacher among most of the students either. Even the Slytherins, who had enjoyed Finnigan’s accident, were leery of being attacked themselves.

Incomprehensibly, the hippogriff’s attack on Seamus Finnegan seemed to have endeared Hagrid to the Gryffindor and his friends. They were always first to his lessons and tended to trail after the gamekeeper, asking endless questions with gruesome curiosity and big grins. They liked to hear stories about the injuries that Hagrid had received from different creatures, which Hagrid was happy to share—always absolving the monster of any guilt of course.

Hagrid had been a bundle of nerves after the incident with the hippogriff, and kept his students working with nothing more exciting than flobberworms (large, tubular creatures that did little but eat lettuce and squirm around) for two weeks, but eventually under the continual pestering from the Gryffindor boys he cheered up.

Harry, assuming that he would always be Hagrid’s favorite and thus the student perpetually forced to first confront any dangerous beast, would have been perfectly content with boring flobberworms and book-lessons but despite the students now knowing how to open their _Monster Book of Monsters_ , Hagrid rarely had them turn to it, preferring to keep their lessons practical.

(“It’s because he can’t read,” Draco whispered. Harry elbowed his friend, hard, and pretended not to hear Crabbe and Goyle snicker.)

The fact that the entire class gasped with precognitive fright every time one of Hagrid’s misunderstood monsters sniffed at Harry didn’t make the lessons any more enjoyable.

At the start of October, however, Harry had something else to occupy him, something so engrossing it more than made up for his unsatisfactory classes. The Quidditch season was approaching and Harry couldn’t wait for the first match.

There were seven people on a Quidditch team: three Chasers, whose job it was to score goals by putting the Quaffle (a red, soccer-sized ball) through one of the fifty-foot-high hoops at each end of the field; two Beaters, who were equipped with heavy bats to repel the Bludgers (two heavy black balls that zoomed around trying to attack the players); a Keeper, who defended the goal posts, and the Seeker, who had the hardest job of all: that of catching the Golden Snitch, a tiny, winged, walnut-sized ball, whose capture ended the game and earned the Seeker’s team an extra one hundred and fifty points. Teams were also allowed reserve players, those who could substitute for their fellows if they were sick or injured. Draco held the reserve spot for Harry’s position of Seeker, something he couldn’t help resenting Harry over. 

Marcus Flint’s narrow eyes glittered with avarice as he stared at his teammates in the chilly locker rooms on the edge of the darkening Quidditch field after practice one night.

“Last year was a waste,” he said grumpily. “But this year—this year we’re going to win the Cup again. I won’t see our streak broken on my watch. And you lot, you’re going to bloody well make sure that doesn’t happen—aren’t you?”

The Slytherin players chorused hurried agreement.

“Good,” Flint growled. “Because it should have been ours last year, except the Mudbloods got all whingy. Now, I don’t want to see anything like that happen again, so if any of you hear about anything— _anything—_ that seems like it’s maybe going to make the teachers jumpy, you tell me first, and we’ll deal with it _ourselves_ before it becomes a problem. You gotta have priorities,” he added sullenly, “and all of you, your priority is Quidditch—Right?”

They nodded even faster this time, Harry feeling like his head was going to bob off his neck.

“Okay,” said Flint. “Go on, then. Potter, I want a word with you yet.”

Harry sat back down on the bench and felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. Why did Flint want to speak to him special? Harry knew that his own track-record as Seeker wasn’t exactly perfect, but surely Flint wasn’t going to hold one rogue Bludger against Harry—was he?

Flint waited until the others trickled out of the locker room, Draco leaving last of all; an odd, hesitant look twisting his expression as he slipped through the door. Flint stomped over to Harry and crossed his arms. He stood looking down at the younger boy in silence for several moments, long enough for Harry to start feeling uncomfortable.

Just as Harry was about to open his mouth, to explain about the mad House Elf and reassure Flint that he hadn’t so much as heard Dobby squeak once since the incident with the Bludger, Flint spoke:

“You heard about Sirius Black, right, Potter?” he asked.

“I—what?” said Harry, thrown by the sudden turn in the conversation. “Er, yeah,” he said. “I heard...”

“Heard he wants to kill you?”

Talking about Sirius Black like this made Harry feel uncomfortable, like he was on trial himself. “I know,” Harry replied quietly.

“You scared?”

Harry blinked. He thought about that a moment, curious himself. _Was_ he scared of Sirius Black? Certainly people seemed to think he should be, but Harry wasn’t so sure. Wasn’t he at Hogwarts, after all, the safest place in the whole Wizarding World, surrounded by witches and wizards, presided over by Albus Dumbledore himself? What was one lone, mad murderer going to do to Harry _here?_

“Not much,” Harry said finally.

Flint nodded, like he liked the answer. “If he causes trouble, I’ll have to take you off the team,” he explained to Harry, his gruff voice uncharacteristically gentle.

Harry shrugged. “If he causes problems, I’ll probably be dead anyway, won’t I?” he asked flatly.

“Probably,” said Flint. “Snape told me to keep an eye on you. Wasn’t supposed to tell you why though.” He frowned then shrugged. “Anyway, I’m gonna have you and Malfoy switch off more so he gets more practice in, just in case,” he told Harry matter-of-factly. “Glad I have him on Reserve now, anyway,” Flint added, more to himself than to Harry.

“Right,” said Harry, standing up. All this talk of Sirius Black, and back-up plans for Harry’s own demise, had made him twitchy. “Is that it?”

Flint nodded and Harry left as quickly as he could without looking like he ran. He almost tripped over Draco, who was lingering outside by the door.

“What was that all about?” Draco asked, his pale face practically glowing in the moonlight. It made him look strangely eager. “Is Flint mad at you? Did you do something wrong?” Harry wondered if Draco was hoping to take his spot on the team, and frowned.

“Sirius Black,” Harry said, guessing that would shut Draco up.

It did, and they walked back up to the castle in silence. Harry resisted the urge to look over his shoulder. He wasn’t sure what he would be looking for—a large, black dog or an ill-kempt murderer—but he kept his eyes fixed on the castle ahead and tried to ignore the way the hairs on the back of his neck prickled, like he was being watched.

Harry soon felt eyes on him wherever he went, and wondered if he was imagining it. There were too many rumors about Sirius Black for anyone to guess what he was really after—Harry—but students stared at him nonetheless, many still whispering about the Grim. The teachers, too, seemed to be keeping an oddly close eye on Harry’s movements, and several times he was tempted to get his dad’s Invisibility Cloak out of his trunk just to have some peace.

The weather was getting colder and wetter, the nights darker, and every practice session Harry had to fight the growing urge to take his eyes off the Snitch and look around to see if there was something lurking in the shadows. He didn’t mention his nerves to anyone, not wanting to risk frightening his friends away again, and did his best not let on that he was distracted. He also made sure not to linger in the changing room, never walking back up to the castle alone—just in case.

Harry and Draco returned to the Slytherin common room one evening after training, cold and stiff, with Draco complaining about the increasingly arduous practices Flint was demanding and Harry fighting the urge to rub the back of his neck, to find the dungeon room buzzing excitedly.

“What’s happened?” Harry asked Crabbe and Goyle, who were squabbling over a scorched pack of Exploding Snap cards.

“Hogsmeade,” Crabbe grunted, pointing at a notice that had appeared on the polished old bulletin board. “First weekend,” he added, when Draco raised his eyebrows.

The two Seekers walked over to look for themselves, since getting proper answers out of their friends was often an exercise in frustration. Harry read through the notice quickly, seeing that their first Hogsmeade weekend had been scheduled for the end of October, the day of Hallowe’en.

“Excellent,” said Draco, “perfect timing. It’ll be like a proper holiday.”

Harry threw himself into a chair next to Crabbe and Goyle, his spirits sinking. He stared dully at their smoking game. Draco looked at him curiously.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked.

“Hogsmeade,” Harry said gloomily. “I can’t go, remember?”

“Oh yeah,” said Draco, “that is rubbish...don’t suppose you could forge your Muggle’s signature?”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t have the form,” he said. “I never got it back from him.”

“What about your secret cloak?” Goyle asked, perking up from the scorch marks in front of him. “The one that makes stuff invis’ble?”

“He wouldn’t make it past the dementors,” Draco said sharply. Harry started to bristle, thinking he was being mocked for his fainting spell, until Draco continued: “Dumbledore told us those things don’t work at the feast—remember?” He smirked humorlessly at Harry. “I rather got the impression he was speaking directly to us,” he said.

Harry nodded.

“So talk to Snape,” Crabbe said, sounding bored. He started stacking cards again. “Have him give you permission.”

“Crabbe, that’s...” Harry paused a moment, thinking. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” he admitted. Harry wasn’t sure if Snape would be willing to help him, but if anyone could, it would be his head of house.

Feeling a little better, Harry fished his homework out and started filling in the star chart that Trelawney had assigned. He wrote sloppily, paying little attention to the what he was doing; he was thinking about what to say to Snape, instead.

 

Rather than risk annoying Professor Snape by wasting his time, Harry decided to wait until his next Potions lesson to talk to him about Hogsmeade. He thought he would do best asking after the lesson, especially if he could turn in a really good potion, and focused on his brewing as never before. Harry was so intense that it took him almost half the class period to realize that there was something strange going on with the Gryffindors.

With his herbicide safely simmering, Harry finally risked glancing up from his cauldron, and looked around the room. Rather than burying her nose so far down in her textbook that the only thing visible was her mane of bushy hair, as she usually did, Hermione kept looking up from her work to glare at Ron Weasley. Weasley, for his part, slammed his tools down noisily on the table he was sharing with Longbottom, as far away from Hermione as was possible without sitting with the Slytherins. Longbottom twitched nervously, and kept looking from one of them to the other, but didn’t say anything. The other Gryffindor girls seemed just as cross with Hermione as Weasley, particularly Lavender Brown; her eyes were red and puffy and she kept sniffling into her sleeve.

Harry was so distracted he barely remembered to stir his cauldron in time to stop it boiling, and had to spend the next few minutes working feverishly to reduce the heat before his potion curdled. When he looked up again, Longbottom’s cauldron was issuing a thick cloud of noxious blue smoke, and Hermione looked smug while Weasley and Longbottom bent their heads over his book together, reading frantically.

Harry grinned to himself, knowing that having an excuse to pick on Longbottom would put Snape in a good mood. If he had thought of it ahead of time, he might have slipped something into Longbottom’s cauldron to make sure his potion would go wrong, but fortunately the Gryffindor’s usual incompetency had done Harry’s work for him.

“Idiot boy,” Snape growled, “what did you do, forget to crush the lionfish spines before you stirred them in?”

From the way Longbottom’s cheeks went pink, Harry figured that was exactly what had happened. Humming cheerfully to himself, Harry turned his attention back to his own potion, prodding it gently with his wand to see how it was coming on. It wasn’t quite as dark a green as Draco’s simmering brew, but the liquid was smooth and the drops stung slightly when they dripped on Harry’s skin, just like the book said it should.

Feeling confident, Harry poured some into a bottle and proudly carried the mixture up to Snape’s desk. He ended up standing behind Hermione as they waited in line for the rest of the class to turn theirs in, so Harry leaned forward and whispered, “Psst—Hermione! You okay?”

She jerked as if startled and almost dropped her own bottle of potion. “Oh—oh yes!” Hermione said, her voice shrill. “Everything is perfectly wonderful!” She glared at Weasley, who was trying to scrape something sticky off his chopping knife and didn’t notice. Harry saw what looked like a lot of very fine scratches on Weasley’s freckled hands, and snickered. It looked like he was still annoying Hermione’s new cat.

“Enjoying having a pet this year?” Harry asked innocently.

“Yes I am,” Hermione snapped. “Crookshanks is a perfectly _lovely_ cat, Harry, thank you for asking!” She put her potion on Snape’s desk and stomped back to her seat, chin in the air.

Weasley looked up and glared across the room at both of them. Harry took a moment to grin back before he, too, handed in his potion and went to clean up.

Harry lingered over the task, still deciding what he was going to say to Professor Snape when the bell rang at the end of the lesson, but it was he who brought up the subject of Hogsmeade first.

“A moment, class,” Snape said, before anyone could make it to the door. “Slytherins, as you are in my House, you should hand in your Hogsmeade permission forms to me— _prior_ to Hallowe’en. Anyone who tries to turn their form in the day of the trip will have to wait until the next Hogsmeade weekend. Anyone who fails to turn in a form at all will not be permitted to leave the grounds, for any reason. Do _not_ forget, or you will not be allowed to visit the village.” He eyed them all darkly, then barked, “Dismissed!”

The Gryffindors bolted for the exit, most of the Slytherins only a few steps behind. Draco waved at Harry with an encouraging shooing motion, then slipped out the door with Crabbe and Goyle. Harry swallowed hard and did up the buckle on his schoolbag, hesitating as if it was being tricky, to give the rest of the class time to leave. Only then did he creep to Professor Snape’s desk.

Snape was inspecting the potions that had been left there, an unimpressed look on his sallow face.

Harry cleared his throat nervously. “Er—Professor?”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Potter?” Snape asked, his voice flat.

Harry took a deep breath and laced his fingers together behind his back. “Well sir,” he said, “you see, my—my form...I don’t have it. It’s, well, it’s still with—with my aunt and uncle, sir. They—they forgot to give it to me before I left.”

“Then I suggest you write to them and get it back,” Snape said coolly.

“Yes, sir,” Harry said. “Only, well—my aunt and uncle, they—they don’t like...magic, much. And they aren’t exactly _keen_ on...on owl post,” Harry explained. “They wouldn’t like it if—that is, if I wrote them by owl, they—well, it wouldn’t make them very happy, sir.”

Snape’s black eyes slowly raised from the gleaming green bottles to fasten on Harry’s face. “I expect not,” he said, his voice completely emotionless.

Harry swallowed. “Well, see, I was wondering if—I mean do you think it would be all right if—well, if I got permission from you instead, sir?” Harry crossed his fingers.

Snape didn’t seem to blink as much as most people. Harry shifted his feet nervously under the Potions Master’s scrutiny. “You need a parent or guardian to sign your form,” he said.

“I—I know that,” Harry said, “and I did get them to sign it, really, I just—well, I left in a hurry,” he said beseechingly, “and I never got the form back from my uncle, so I can’t hand it in—but he _did_ sign it, I promise,” he said desperately. “And if you believed me, well, surely that would be all right, wouldn’t it? If _you_ gave me permission? Please?”

For a long moment Snape just stared at him. Then he looked back down at his desk and started to organize the bottles in front of him according to coloration and viscosity. “I don’t think so, Potter.”

“Oh but please, professor, they really did sign it, honest they did—”

“I believe you,” Snape interrupted him sharply. “But you do not have the form. As such, regardless of the veracity of your claims, you cannot prove to the school that your guardians have given their permission for you to visit Hogsmeade. If I were to permit you to go anyway—if I were to overstep their authority on the matter—it would be most irregular.”

He glanced at Harry briefly, then bent back to his work. “I am sorry, Mr. Potter, but that is the end of the matter. And now, I believe that if you do not hurry along, you are going to be late for Transfiguration, are you not? I would hate to see you be responsible for giving Professor McGonagall any excuse to take points from Slytherin.”

With nothing else to do, Harry nodded sadly and trudged out of Snape’s office. At least, Harry thought, Snape hadn’t yelled at him for trying to bend the rules. Maybe he was starting to like Harry at last.


	8. The Whomping Willow

On Hallowe’en morning, Harry awoke with the rest of the Slytherins and went down to breakfast, feeling thoroughly depressed, though doing his best to act normally.

The rest of the school was buzzing excitedly about the upcoming trip, and Crabbe and Goyle were so far lost in ecstatic discussion of the products of Honeydukes that they barely managed second helpings of breakfast.

“Wish you were coming,” Draco said cheerfully. “Don’t know what good those two are going to be, spending the whole time pigging out on sweets. I’ll bring you something back, if they don’t eat the whole shop.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, forcing a smile. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll see you at the feast.”

The Hallowe’en feast was always good, but it would taste a lot better if he was coming to it after a day in Hogsmeade with everyone else. Harry looked over hopefully at the Gryffindor table, remembering that Hermione’s parents were Muggles, but while she was sitting by herself she had her cloak, hat, and scarf piled next to her on the bench, just like everyone else. Apparently even forgetful Neville Longbottom had managed to turn in a permission form—or else McGonagall was more lenient than Snape—because he, too, was dressed for a cold walk.

Harry sighed and accompanied his friends to the entrance hall, where Filch, the caretaker, was standing inside the front doors, checking off names against a long list, peering suspiciously into every face, and making sure that no one was sneaking out who shouldn’t be going.

“What’s the matter,” Weasley called gleefully from his place in line with the other Gryffindor boys, when he caught sight of Harry lingering near the door, “you afraid of the dementors? Or is it the Grim?”

The others laughed, but Hermione gave him a dirty look.

Harry replied with a rude gesture and made his solitary way up the marble staircase to the deserted corridors. He was halfway down the stairs to the dungeon when rough hands fastened on his shoulders and spun him around.

Harry yelped and scrabbled for his wand, then saw who had grabbed him, and scrabbled harder. It was the Weasley twins, their identical freckled faces frowning seriously at they stared down at him.

“Put the wand away, Potter,” one of them said.

“We’re here to pay off a debt,” said the other.

Harry hesitated, but didn’t put his wand down. “What are you talking about?” he asked nervously.

“Our sister made a good point, the other week,” the first twin said.

The second continued, “We do owe you, she’s right.”

“We’ve been thinking about how to deal with that ever since, and we think we’ve come up with something appropriate at last.”

Harry swallowed hard, wishing his friends were here. “What’s that?” he asked.

“We notice you aren’t going to Hogsmeade with the rest.”

“Rumor has it you don’t have a permission form.”

“What’s it to you?” said Harry, scowling.

“What’s it to us,” repeated one of the twins, shaking his head mournfully.

“George, the distrust of young people today is a sad commentary on our society.”

“That is is, Fred. I am, personally, hurt. Quite hurt.”

Harry frowned, wishing he was in a position to do some actual hurting.

“Well, Potter,” the twin who must be Fred said, “what it is to us is, we have decided to make your wildest dreams come true. We have decided to help you get to Hogsmeade.”

“Bollocks,” said Harry.

The twins laughed at him. “No bollocks at all, little Slytherin,” said George. "We'll tell you how to get to the village without Filch knowing anything about it."

“In return, our debt to you will be wiped clean, and you will be able to go merrily on your way to a day romping about Hogsmeade Village, permission form or no permission form.”

“How are you going to do that?” Harry asked suspiciously.

“Follow us, Potter,” said Fred, beckoning with his fingers.

The twins walked off. After a moment, Harry followed.

They led him back up the stairs, and out of the castle by a side door. Harry stopped. “I’m not going through the Forbidden Forest,” he said flatly. “You must think I’m some first year idiot, going to fall for that trick—”

“No trick,” George said, sniggering. “And no forest. No, what you’re going to do, is take a secret passage.”

“It runs all the way into Hogsmeade. Now, that means breaking the rules of course, and if the dementors hear that you were wandering around the village they’ll probably be cross—but that shouldn’t be a problem for you, right?”

“Yeah, you’re not stupid enough to get caught, right?”

“And even if you were—well, you’re not afraid of the dementors, are you?”

Harry swallowed. “Of course I’m not,” he said.

“Good, good, glad to hear it.” Fred slung an arm around Harry’s shoulders and hung on tight when Harry tried to squirm away. “Now, what you need to do is, you open up that tree there—you’ll see how when you get close, there’s practically a doorknob—and then slip inside.”

“Next it’s down a staircase—bit dark, but so long as you remember to shut the door behind you, you can light your wand up without anyone seeing it from the school.”

“Then all you do is, you follow the passageway all the way into Hogsmeade. It comes out right on the edge of the village, so you just saunter on in to town like you’re supposed to be there and no one should be the wiser.”

“To get back, you do the same thing. Just make sure you leave yourself plenty of time to get back, in case you run into any delays. Otherwise you’ll miss the feast.” George winked at him.

Harry finally pulled free of Fred’s arm. “How do I know you aren’t tricking me?” he asked.

“Everything we’ve told you is true,” George said solemnly. “Word of honor.”

“We swear it on our own mother’s head,” Fred added, “may she never make us biscuits again if we’ve told you any lies.”

Harry frowned, but remembered how protective the twins seemed to be about the subject of their mother.

“Besides,” Fred added, “what if we are lying? The worst that’ll happen is that you _won’t_ get to Hogsmeade—and you already can’t. So what have you got to lose?”

Harry thought it over. “Nothing, I guess...” he said.

“Excellent,” said George. “Good luck.” Fred just grinned. They watched him with identical, gleaming teeth and glittering eyes. Harry swallowed and took a step backward, thinking that he knew what a mouse felt like when Hedwig swooped down on it. “Well,” he said, “I’ll just...go fetch my cloak, then...”

The twins didn’t move. Harry forced a watery smile. “Right, well...thanks.” Harry turned and hurried off, crossing his arms against the crisp autumn chill. He could feel the twins’ eyes on him the whole way back to the castle, and fought the urge to rub the back of his neck.

Harry hurried down to the dungeon to collect his cloak, hat, and scarf. He hesitated, then took the books out of his schoolbag and stuffed his Invisibility Cloak inside—just in case. Thus properly outfitted, Harry sneaked out of the almost deserted castle, ignoring the first and second year Slytherins who lingered in the common room, and he ambled across the lawn like he was supposed to be there. So far he wasn’t doing anything illicit—school grounds were open to students, even on Hogsmeade weekends—but Harry felt watched, and consequently guilty.

He kept peering around, wondering if Filch was going to come swooping out from behind a bush (it wouldn’t surprise him if the Weasley twins had tipped the caretaker off, just to get Harry in trouble), but the lawns were as deserted as the castle halls. Harry was so busy looking around that he wasn’t watching where he was going, and he tripped over a tree root and went sprawling.

That was the only thing that saved him from having his head bashed in by a thick, knobby branch. Harry scrambled up out of the dirt and gaped at the tree in front of him. It was moving, in a way that no plant had any right to move, swaying on its trunk and twirling its branches like Beater’s Bats.

Harry stood frozen, staring, for a moment too long, and a thin branch whipped across his shoulders. Yelping, Harry threw his arms over his head and scrambled away as fast as he could, barely dodging another blow from a branch the size of Hagrid’s arm. Safely out of range, Harry turned back and looked at the tree in horror. He heard stifled laughter behind him and looked around.

There were Fred and George Weasley, and their friend Lee Jordan, and all three Gryffindor Chasers, and a growing cluster of other students. Harry felt his face flush and scowled at the twins, who collapsed with laughter on each other’s shoulders.

“Very funny!” Harry shouted, which only made the spectators laugh harder.

“Not a fan of the Whomping Willow, Potter?” Lee Jordan asked, grinning. “It seems to like you well enough!”

As renewed laughter washed over Harry, he realized something that made his heart sink even lower. Harry turned around and saw his schoolbag lying near the roots of the tree, his Invisibility Cloak still tucked safely inside it.

Harry swore. It must have fallen off his shoulder when he tripped. With only the cloak inside it, the bag hadn’t weighed enough for him to notice. If it had just been his schoolbag—or even a few textbooks—Harry probably would have let the tree keep it, but he couldn’t leave his father’s cloak there.

Gritting his teeth, Harry started toward the tree.

“Stop, don’t!”

A shrill voice made Harry turn around. The youngest Weasley, little Ginny whom he had saved from the Chamber of Secrets last year, had come out with her friends to join the crowd. She stared at Harry, her freckled face pale, and shook her head. “Don’t,” she said again, “please don’t!”

Harry turned away. He _had_ to get the cloak back.

Keeping a baleful eye on the branches overhead, Harry slowly inched forward. He flinched at every gust of wind that made the leaves rustle and the tree creak. The smaller twigs swayed in the breeze, and Harry started walking faster. When the branches suddenly shuddered, he bolted for his bag.

Dodging and ducking, Harry ran as fast as he could, trying to ignore the sting of sharp twigs that raked him whenever a larger branch narrowly missed hitting him. He was smacked a few times, glancing blows mainly, but one sent him sprawling headfirst into the dirt—and fortunately right next to his bag. The moment Harry felt the rough fabric of the shoulder strap, he closed his hand around the bag and ran as fast as he could away from the tree.

He didn’t stop until he had run past the crowd around the Weasley twins. Then he bent over, hands on his knees, panting as he tried to catch his breath. He couldn’t remember ever running so fast in his life, not even to escape Dudley or make it to class on time—not even to escape the Basilisk!

The Weasleys and their friends were all laughing at him. “Good show, Potter!” one of them shouted. A few people were clapping. “Almost like chasing a snitch, huh?” said one of the Gryffindor Chasers.

“I don’t think that was very funny.”

Harry turned around to see Ginny Weasley standing in front of her brothers, her small fists planted on her hips and a stern expression on her face. The twins watched her with identical bemused grins.

“C’mon, Gin, it was a little funny.”

Ginny shook her head. “I think it was _mean_ ,” she retorted.

The twins shrugged, unconcerned. “You should write mum and ask her to mail you back your sense of humor,” one of them said. “Clearly you forgot to pack it. C’mon, George, let’s get to Hogsmeade before Zonko’s sells out of all the good stuff...”

The crowd broke up at that, with the Weasley twins, Lee Jordan, and the Gryffindor Chasers leading the pack. One of the girls seemed to be scolding the twins, but they laughed her off and pulled her braids until she broke down in giggles.

Harry, scowling and sulking, felt a lot less forgiving.

Ginny Weasley was the last to walk away. Shifting nervously from foot to foot she stood staring at Harry for several minutes. Finally she blurted, “Sorry!” and took off for the castle at a run.

Limping, Harry followed her. He entertained himself for several minutes imagining various plots of revenge. He knew better than to get caught in a prank war with the Weasley twins, but it was still pleasant to picture them suffering at his hands.

He decided to go to the library and get started on his homework for the week-end. If he couldn’t join his friends in Hogsmeade, at least he could make sure that he was done with his homework first so he could goof-off in front of them. Halfway there he realized that he had taken all of his books and parchment out of his schoolbag. He turned around to go back to the dungeons and came face-to-face with Filch, who had obviously just seen off the last of the Hogsmeade visitors.

“What are you doing?” Filch snarled suspiciously.

“Nothing,” said Harry truthfully.

“Nothing!” spat Filch, his jowls quivering unpleasantly. “A likely story! Sneaking around on your own—why aren’t you in Hogsmeade buying Stink Pellets and Belch Powder and Whizzing Worms like the rest of your nasty little friends?”

Harry shrugged. He didn’t have to explain himself to Filch.

“Well, get back to your common room where you belong!” snapped Filch, and he stood glaring until Harry had passed out of sight.

But Harry didn’t feel like doing anything that Filch told him to; he climbed a staircase, thinking vaguely of visiting the Owlery to see Hedwig, and was walking along another corridor when a voice from inside one of the rooms said, “Harry!”

Harry doubled back to see who had spoken and met Professor Lupin, looking around his office door.

“What are you doing?” said Lupin, though in a very different voice from Filch. “Where’s Mr. Malfoy?”

“Hogsmeade,” said Harry, in a would-be casual voice.

“Ah,” said Lupin. He considered Harry for a moment. “Why don’t you come in? I’ve just taken delivery of a grindylow for our next lesson.”

“A what?” said Harry.

He followed Lupin into his office. In the corner stood a very large tank of water. A sickly green creature with sharp little horns had its face pressed against the glass, pulling faces and flexing its long, spindly fingers.

“Water demon,” said Lupin, surveying the grindylow thoughtfully. “We shouldn’t have much difficulty with him, not after the kappas. The trick is to break his grip. You notice the abnormally long fingers? Strong, but very brittle.”

The grindylow bared its green teeth and then buried itself in a tangle of weeds in a corner.

“Cup of tea?” said Lupin, looking around for his kettle. “I was just thinking of making one.”

“All right,” said Harry awkwardly.

Lupin tapped the kettle with his wand and a blast of steam issued suddenly from the spout.

“Sit down,” said Lupin, taking the lid off a dusty tin. “I’ve only got teabags, I’m afraid—but I daresay you’ve had enough of tea leaves?”

Harry looked at him. Lupin’s eyes were twinkling.

“How did you know about that?” Harry asked.

“I heard some of your classmates talking about it,” said Lupin, passing Harry a chipped mug of tea. “You’d be amazed how gossip travels through this school. You’re not worried, are you?”

“No,” said Harry.

He thought for a moment of telling Lupin about the dog he’d seen in Magnolia Crescent but decided not to. He didn’t want Lupin to think he was a coward, especially since he already seemed to think he couldn’t cope with a boggart.

Something of Harry’s thoughts seemed to have shown on his face, because Lupin said, “Anything worrying you, Harry?”

“No,” Harry lied. He drank a bit of tea and watched the grindylow brandishing a fist at him. “Yes,” he said suddenly, putting his tea down on Lupin’s desk. “You know that day we fought the boggart?”

“Yes,” said Lupin slowly.

“Why didn’t you let me fight it?” said Harry abruptly.

Lupin raised his eyebrows.

“I would have thought that was obvious, Harry,” he said, sounding surprised.

Harry, who had expected Lupin to deny that he’d done any such thing, was taken aback.

“Why?” he said again.

“Well,” said Lupin, frowning slightly, “I assumed that if the boggart faced you, it would assume the shape of Lord Voldemort.”

Harry stared. Not only was this the last answer he’d expected, but Lupin had said Voldemort’s name. The only person Harry had ever heard say the name aloud (apart from himself, before he knew better) was Professor Dumbledore.

“Clearly, I was wrong,” said Lupin, still frowning at Harry. “But I didn’t think it was a good idea for Lord Voldemort to materialize in the staffroom. I imagined that people would panic.”

Harry snorted. “They didn’t panic,” he said, “they were just confused.”

“Excuse me?” said Lupin.

“That was Draco’s boggart,” Harry said. “It wasn’t a prefect—or he was, I suppose, but he was more than that. That was Vold—You-Kn—Voldemort, back when he was a student here.”

Lupin’s jaw fell open.

“We met him—or at least the memory of him—last year,” Harry said, trying to sound casual so that Lupin wouldn’t think he was bragging. “You know, when we rescued Ginny Weasley and saved the school from the Basilisk? Dumbledore will have told you about that when he hired you, I’m sure...”

“He...mentioned something about a Basilisk, yes,” Lupin said. He sounded dazed.

Harry shrugged. “Well, there you are, then. We aren’t really supposed to talk about it,” he said conspiratorially, “but you’re the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, so I figure it’s okay...”

Lupin nodded. He took an absent, wide-eyed sip of his tea.

Harry preened a bit, running a hand through his hair in an effort to look casual. “Anyway,” he continued blithely, “I didn’t think of You-Know—of Voldemort. I—I remembered those dementors,” he admitted, faltering.

“I see,” said Lupin thoughtfully. “Well, well...I’m impressed.” He smiled slightly at the look of confusion on Harry’s face. “That suggests that what you fear most of all is—fear. Very wise, Harry.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that, so he drank some more tea.

“So you’ve been thinking that I didn’t believe you capable of fighting the boggart?” said Lupin shrewdly.

“Well...yeah,” said Harry. He was suddenly feeling a lot happier. “Professor Lupin, you know the dementors—”

He was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Come in,” called Lupin.

The door opened, and in came Snape. He was carrying a goblet, which was smoking faintly, and stopped at the sight of Harry, his black eyes narrowing.

“Ah, Severus,” said Lupin, smiling. “Thanks very much. Could you leave it here on the desk for me?”

Snape set down the smoking goblet, his eyes wandering between Harry and Lupin.

“I was just showing Harry my grindylow,” said Lupin pleasantly, pointing at the tank.

“Fascinating,” said Snape, without looking at it. “You should drink that directly, Lupin.”

“Yes, yes, I will,” said Lupin.

“I made an entire cauldronful,” Snape continued. “If you need more.”

“I should probably take some again tomorrow. Thanks very much, Severus.”

“Not at all,” said Snape, but there was a look in his eye that Harry couldn’t place. He backed toward the door, not taking his eyes off of Lupin and Harry, then hesitated. He looked oddly unsettled. “Potter,” Snape said sharply, “do be sure not to be late to the feast tonight.”

Harry blinked. “Er—no, professor,” he said, “I won’t be, thank you.”

Snape nodded and backed out of the room, unsmiling and watchful.

Harry looked curiously at the goblet. Lupin smiled.

“Professor Snape has very kindly concocted a potion for me,” he said. “I have never been much of a potion-brewer and this one is particularly complex.” He picked up the goblet and sniffed it. “Pity sugar makes it useless,” he added, taking a sip and shuddering.

“Why—?” Harry began. Lupin looked at him and answered the unfinished question.

“I’ve been feeling a bit off-color,” he said. “This potion is the only thing that helps. I am very lucky to be working alongside Professor Snape; there aren’t many wizards who are up to making it.”

Professor Lupin took another sip and Harry remembered the look on Snape’s face at the start of term feast. He wondered what was in that goblet, and if he should maybe do something like knock it out of Lupin’s hands before he swallowed any more of it...

Harry bit his lip, fighting the urge to warn Lupin. He had no proof that Snape was up to anything untoward, after all; maybe he _was_ just being helpful. Of course, if Harry had been the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, knowing how much Snape wanted the job, he would never have drunk _anything_ the Potions Master brewed for him.

Lupin looked at him curiously. “Something wrong, Harry?” he asked.

Harry thought about it, and ultimately decided that it wasn’t his job to protect Professor Lupin. He was the Dark Arts Professor, after all; if he couldn’t spot a poison, surely he wouldn’t be working at Hogwarts. Besides, Snape was Harry’s head of house. There was the question of loyalty to consider.

“No,” said Harry, feeling as unsettled as Snape had looked, “nothing.”

Lupin nodded. He drained the goblet and pulled a face.

“Disgusting,” he said. “Well, Harry, I’d better get back to work. See you at the feast later.”

“Right,” said Harry, putting down his empty teacup.

The empty goblet was still smoking.

 

“Here you are,” Draco said smugly, “that’s a little bit of everything.”

A heavy bag landed in Harry’s lap. The watery light from the underwater windows was fading in a way that made Harry suspect it was probably dusk outside, or soon would be. Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle had just turned up in the common room, pink-faced from the cold and looking as though they’d had the time of their lives. Crabbe and Goyle were each carrying a bag of their own at least as large as Harry’s.

Goyle cleared his throat pointedly and Draco made a face. “Okay,” he amended, “not _everything_ , but I told these morons that you wouldn’t _want_ to try Cockroach Clusters and Blood Pops and disgusting things like that. Feel free to tell me I’m mistaken.”

Harry laughed. “No mistake,” he said, fishing in the bag and choosing a packet of squeaking Ice Mice. “Thanks. What was Hogsmeade like? Where did you go?”

By the sound of it—everywhere. Dervish and Banges, the wizarding equipment shop, Zonko’s Joke Shop, into the Three Broomsticks for foaming mugs of hot butterbeer, and many places besides.

“D’you know, I think there was an ogre in the Three Broomsticks? Can you imagine, sitting with civilized people—”

“Acid Pops that melt right through your tongue. Pepper Imps, they make you smoke right out of your nose—”

“More owls than you can imagine, Merlin the ruckus they caused, all hooting—”

“Fizzing Whizzbees, you float if you eat ‘em, and Jelly Slugs, they really crawl—”

“Didn’t hear anything from the Shrieking Shack though, and we stood outside for _hours—_ ”

“Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum, the bubbles don’t pop for days, and Toothflossing Stringmints, Vince got a bunch of those stuck in his teeth—”

“What about you, Potter? Do anything fun?” The scornful tone in Crabbe’s voice made it clear that he wasn’t expecting Harry to be able to answer in the affirmative.

“Not much,” he said, shrugging. “Professor Lupin made me a cup of tea in his office and showed me our next lesson.” Harry gave a casual smile, then told them all about the goblet that Snape had brought in. Draco’s mouth fell open.

“ _Lupin drank it?_ ” he chortled incredulously. “Is he mad or just stupid?” He fell back in his chair, laughing.

“He’ll be dead by dawn,” said Crabbe with grim delight.

Harry felt a pang of guilt but pushed it away; if even Crabbe was smart enough to know that drink was probably poison, surely a professor should be able to figure that out and protect himself. If he couldn’t, that wasn’t Harry’s fault.

“I dunno,” Draco said, “if it _was_ poison, he probably wouldn’t have handed it over in front of Harry, would he? And if it was,” he added with glee, “he’ll have to give Lupin the antidote now without him realizing, because if he drops dead Harry will be able to incriminate him. We should watch and see if Snape slips anything into Lupin’s drink at the feast!”

“Can we go to it now?” Goyle asked anxiously. “It’s gonna start soon, right?”

“Any minute now,” said Draco.

They had to hurry to keep up with Goyle as he bolted out through the secret entrance, Crabbe right on his heels. The two bigger boys kept them walking too fast to discuss the matter of Lupin’s goblet any further. When they entered the Great Hall, all thoughts of poisons were driven out of Harry’s mind. The room had been decorated with hundreds and hundreds of candle-filled pumpkins, a cloud of fluttering live bats, and many flaming orange streamers, which were swimming lazily across the stormy ceiling like brilliant watersnakes.

The food was delicious; he and Draco had at least two of each dish, and Crabbe and Goyle, who had probably eaten half of Honeydukes, still managed third helpings of everything. Draco kept glancing at the staff table and nudging Harry in the ribs to get him to look. Professor Lupin looked cheerful and as well as he ever did; he was talking animatedly to tiny little Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher. Harry moved his eyes along the table, to the place where Snape sat. Was he imagining it, or were Snape’s eyes flickering toward Lupin more often than was natural? Harry kept waiting for him to reach into his robes and pull out a vial, or sidle up behind Lupin and reach for his goblet, but Snape stayed in his seat.

The feast finished with an entertainment provided by the Hogwarts ghosts. They popped out of the walls and tables to do a bit of formation gliding; Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost, had a great success with a reenactment of his own botched beheading, although Draco yawned halfway through and asked, “How many strikes does it take to chop off one stupid head?” Harry hadn’t been counting, but Theodore Nott leaned across the table and said dryly, “Forty-five, apparently.” They all laughed.

It had been such a pleasant evening that Harry’s good mood couldn’t even be spoiled by the Weasley twins, who gave him a round of applause as he passed them in the hallway. Harry had to explain about the Whomping Willow to his friends then, but on hindsight he had to admit that it was a _little_ funny, even if his bruises still smarted.

He followed his friends and the rest of the Slytherins down to their comfortable dungeon and into their beds. Harry had just changed into his pajamas and pulled the covers up when he was startled back upright by the sounds of doors slamming and people barking orders. The Slytherins were all hustled back up to the Great Hall, where the Gryffindors were already waiting. The students from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw came in right behind them. Everyone looked as confused as Harry felt, except for the Gryffindors, who were excited and frightened.

“The teachers and I need to conduct a thorough search of the castle,” Professor Dumbledore told them as Professors McGonagall and Flitwick closed all the doors into the hall. “I’m afraid that, for your own safety, you will have to spend the night here. I want the prefects to stand guard over the entrances to the hall and I am leaving the Head Boy and Girl in charge. Any disturbance should be reported to me immediately,” he added to Percy Weasley, who was looking immensely proud and self-important. “Send word with one of the ghosts.”

Professor Dumbledore paused, about to leave the hall, and said, “Oh, yes, you’ll be needing...”

One casual wave of his wand and the long tables flew to the edges of the hall and stood themselves against the walls; another wave, and the floor was covered with hundreds of squashy purple sleeping bags.

“Sleep well,” said Professor Dumbledore, closing the door behind him.

The hall immediately began to buzz excitedly. Figuring that they probably knew what was going on, Harry led the way over to the crowd of Gryffindors, looking for Hermione. She came pushing toward them, her face pale beneath her bushy hair.

“Harry,” she said, “Harry you’ll never guess—he was in the castle—it was him—”

“Everyone into their sleeping bags!” shouted the Head Boy. “Come on, now, no more talking! Lights out in ten minutes!”

“I’ve got to tell you—over here—” Hermione said. Harry and his friends seized five sleeping bags and dragged them into a corner. They settled down facing Hermione, who looked terribly anxious. She was still fully dressed, but climbed into her sleeping bag anyway; none of the Gryffindors were in their pajamas.

“What’s going on, Granger?” Draco asked. “Why have they dragged us all up here?”

“It’s Sirius Black,” said Hermione, her voice a fearful whisper. “Sirius Black is in the castle.”

Harry stared at her. He felt his jaw fall open, and did nothing to stop it. “What’s that?” he asked, when he could speak again. “Sirius Black, inside Hogwarts? How?”

Hermione shook her head. “No one knows,” she said. “But he attacked the Fat Lady—er, one of the portraits...she, well, don’t tell anyone, but she guards the entrance to Gryffindor Tower....Black cut her painting, because he was trying to get inside our dormitory, and she wouldn’t let him in!”

Harry decided that now wasn’t a good time to tell Hermione that he and Draco had discovered the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, and its portrait guardian, last year when they had been trying to catch the Heir of Slytherin.

“Black’s _in Hogwarts?_ ” Draco asked, his voice shrill. He eyed Harry anxiously. “But...but why would he have gone to _Gryffindor_ Tower?”

“No idea,” said Hermione. “Everyone says he’s mad though, don’t they? Frankly I just think we’re lucky that he picked tonight. The one night we weren’t in the tower...”

“Yeah,” Draco muttered, “lucky...”

Harry thought this was too dire a matter to joke about, no matter how annoying most of Hermione’s housemates were. “I guess he must have lost track of time,” Harry said aloud. “If he’d realized it was Halloween...”

“He’d have come bursting right in here in the middle of the feast,” said Draco, his voice suddenly hushed. They all turned to stare at Harry, even Hermione, who looked confused by the attention his friends were giving him.

He swallowed hard. “Well, it’s a good thing he’s too crazy to keep track of a calendar, then,” Harry said, forcing his voice to sound hearty. “That would have been awkward.”

Draco forced a nervous laugh. Hermione shuddered.

All around them, people were asking one another the same question: _“How did he get in?”_

“Maybe he knows how to Apparate,” said a Ravenclaw a few feet away. “Just appear out of thin air, you know.”

“Disguised himself, probably,” said a Hufflepuff fifth year.

“He could’ve flown in,” suggested Dean Thomas, from Gryffindor.

“Honestly, am I the _only_ person who’s ever bothered to read _Hogwarts, a History?_ ” said Hermione crossly to Harry and his friends.

“Dunno,” said Goyle, looking more frightened of the grumpy witch than he was by the idea of Sirius Black. “Why?”

“Because the castle’s protected by more than _walls_ , you know,” said Hermione. “There are all sorts of enchantments on it, to stop people entering by stealth. You can’t just Apparate in here. And I’d like to see the disguise that could fool those dementors. They’re guarding every single entrance to the grounds. They’d have seen him fly in too. And Filch knows all the secret passages, they’ll have them covered....”

“The lights are going out now!” Percy Weasley shouted. “I want everyone in their sleeping bags and no more talking!”

“What a prat,” Draco muttered.

Before Harry could agree, the candles suddenly went out, all at once. The only light now came from the silvery ghosts, who were drifting about talking seriously to the prefects, and the enchanted ceiling, which, like the sky outside, was scattered with stars. What with that, and the whispering that still filled the hall—most other people apparently sharing Harry’s and Draco’s opinions of their Head Boy and his orders—Harry felt as though he were sleeping outdoors in a light wind.

“If he didn’t Apparate, or fly, or wear a disguise, or anything else—how _did_ he get in?” Harry wondered in a whisper. He wasn’t exactly frightened, but he had a feeling he wouldn’t be getting much sleep until he knew for sure that Sirius Black had left the castle for good.

“Well,” Draco replied quietly, “he broke _out_ of Azkaban, and that’s supposed to be impossible. Is it really any more surprising that he could break _in_ to Hogwarts?”

Harry swallowed hard. He couldn’t think of any answer to that, that didn’t make him feel like a dementor was somewhere nearby and coming closer. Harry wished he’d thought to bring along his wand. He pulled his sleeping bag over his head and tried not to shudder. On the other side of the squashy purple bag, he could hear Hermione interrogating Draco. When he reluctantly admitted that the four of them suspected there was some truth to the rumor that Black was after Harry, Hermione gave a cry of dismay. Harry pretended to snore so she wouldn’t talk to him.

Once every hour, a teacher would reappear in the hall to check that everything was quiet. Around three in the morning, when many students had finally fallen asleep, Professor Dumbledore came in. Harry watched him looking around for the Head Boy, who had been prowling between the sleeping bags, telling people off for talking. Percy Weasley was only a short way away from Harry and his friends (Crabbe snoring loudly, and Goyle curled into a fat purple ball). Harry quickly pretended to be asleep as well as Dumbledore’s footsteps drew nearer.

“Any sign of him, Professor?” asked Weasley in a whisper.

“No. All well here?”

“Everything under control, sir.”

“Good. There’s no point moving them all now. I’ve found a temporary guardian for the Gryffindor portrait hole. You’ll be able to move them back in tomorrow.”

“And the Fat Lady, sir?”

“Hiding in a map of Argyllshire on the second floor. Apparently she refused to let Black in without the password, so he attacked. She’s still very distressed, but once she’s calmed down, I’ll have Mr. Filch restore her.”

Harry heard the door of the hall creak open again, and more footsteps.

“Headmaster?” It was Professor Snape. Harry kept quite still, listening hard. “The whole of the third floor has been searched. He’s not there. And Filch has done the dungeons; nothing there either.”

“What about the Astronomy Tower? Professor Trelawney’s rooms? The Owlery?”

“All searched...”

“Very well, Severus. I didn’t really expect Black to linger.”

“Have you any theory as to how he got in, Professor?” asked Snape.

Harry raised his head very slightly off his arms to free his other ear.

“Many, Severus, each of them as unlikely as the next.”

Harry opened his eyes a fraction and squinted up to where they stood. Dumbledore’s back was to him, but he could see Weasley’s face, rapt with attention, and Snape’s profile, which looked angry.

“Sir,” Weasley asked, “sir do you know—I mean, the rumors of what Black’s after—I mean, I overheard my father—well, if they’re true—then why would Black try and break into _Gryffindor_ Tower, sir? If you take my meaning?”

“A very good question, Mr. Weasley,” Dumbledore said softly.

“The boy’s parents were both Gryffindors,” Snape said, “perhaps Black simply assumed that he must be, as well.” Snape seemed strangely smug. “That sort of faulty logic is quite in keeping with his character.”

“Mmm,” said Dumbledore, noncommittally. He seemed to be thinking hard about something that had just struck him, and only half-listening to his Potions Master.

“Well,” Dumbledore said at last, with a slight smile, “I suppose it does prove one thing, Severus. Sirius Black is _not_ in contact with someone inside the school.”

“What?” Snape stopped dead, his pale face mottling.

“Had he a...confederate, within,” Dumebldore said, “he would have known that Harry is one of yours, and not up in his old familiar tower.” He patted Snape on the arm. “That, at least, is reassuring, don’t you think? Now, I must go down to the dementors,” Dumbledore continued. “I said I would inform them when our search was complete.”

“Didn’t they want to help, sir?” said Weasley.

“Oh yes,” said Dumbledore coldly. “But I’m afraid no dementor will cross the threshold of this castle while I am headmaster.”

Weasley looked abashed. Dumbledore left the hall, walking away from his Potions Master. Snape looked furious. He stood for a moment, watching the headmaster, then he too left.

Harry glanced sideways at Draco, and then at Hermione. Both of them had their eyes open too, reflecting the starry ceiling.

“Sirius Black was a Gryffindor?” whispered Hermione, looking horrified.

“What confederate?” asked Harry.

None of them had any answers.

 

 


	9. Grim Defeat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to apologize to all of you wonderful, faithful readers for the long delay in posting. My cat died followed pretty promptly by my computer so I was in no fit state to write, and didn't have the story file to work on anyway. Fortunately most of the data--including _Green-Eyed Snake_ \--was able to be recovered, so we should be back on track now although I fear I'm not quite back to my usual levels of motivation so the next few updates might be a little slower than they used to be. I want to thank you all for sticking with the story despite everything. You interest is definitely what's keeping me going on this series and I really appreciate it. Thank you, and I hope you continue to enjoy this little twist on the tale.

The school talked of nothing but Sirius Black for the next few days. The theories about how he had entered the castle became wilder and wilder; Anthony Goldstein, from Ravenclaw, spent much of their next Herbology class telling anyone who’d listen that Black could turn into a pair of leather boots.

“And who walked him into the castle, then?” Draco sneered.

Goldstein flushed, and didn’t speak again for the rest of the lesson.  When class ended, he made sure to accidentally knock his pot of dirt into Draco’s lap.

Dirty robes and insulted Ravenclaws were the least of Harry’s worries, though. He was now being closely watched. Teachers found excuses to walk along corridors with him and portraits looked out of their frames as he passed and whispered behind him, like a host of extremely flat bodyguards. To cap it all, Professor McGonagall summoned Harry into her office, with such a somber expression on her face Harry thought someone must have died.

“There’s no point hiding it from you any longer, Potter,” she said in a very serious voice. “I know this will come as a shock to you, but Sirius Black—”

“It’s not a shock,” Harry interrupted, in no mood to be polite. “He broke out of Azkaban to kill me. I’ve heard.”

Professor McGonagall seemed very taken aback. She stared at Harry for a moment or two, then said, “I see! Well, in that case, Potter, you’ll understand why I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be practicing Quidditch in the evenings. Out in the field with only your team members, it’s very exposed—”

“You can’t!” Harry protested, outraged. “You haven’t got any right—if you want Gryffindor to win—you can’t just stop me practicing the first time you get an excuse—that’s not fair—!”

McGonagall’s face flushed. “This has nothing to do with winning or losing, Potter,” she squawked. “I am only concerned with your safety.”

Harry folded his arms and glowered at her, unconvinced. McGonagall glared back at him. “Very well,” she snapped, “I certainly don’t want anyone thinking there’s anything _unfair_ going on. If you insist on attending practices in spite of the danger, I will ask Madam Hooch to oversee them. I trust you have no objection to _that?_ ”

“None, professor,” Harry said thinly. McGonagall nodded to him curtly, and Harry left her office as fast as he could.

 

The weather worsened steadily as the first Quidditch match drew nearer. Undaunted, the Slytherin team was training harder than ever under the eye of Madam Hooch. Flint hadn’t been happy to have her join them at first, but even he had to admit that the Quidditch referee was scrupulously fair, and had never shown much sign of favoring Gryffindor; she wasn’t likely to be reporting on the Slytherins’ tactics to their opponents. And Harry did feel safer having her there, even if she did little aside from sit and watch in silence.

Of course, with Sirius Black lurking in Harry’s mind as a constant, distant threat, the taunts from the Gryffindors in the days leading up to the match didn’t unnerve him the way they usually did, although he did wish they would stop asking Draco if he was ready to step-in if Harry should suddenly drop dead.

“Why don’t _you_ drop dead?” Harry retorted the next time it happened.

The person who’d asked—some first year Hufflepuff with fat pigtails—burst into tears and ran away. Harry’s friends roared with laughter and slapped him on the back in congratulations. It didn’t make Harry feel any better, and not just because Crabbe and Goyle slapped hard enough to make him stumble into walls. After that, he tried to keep his temper to himself, which resulted in a lot of gritted teeth. When Draco started making fun of the horrible faces he was making, Harry gave up and just stopped listening when people spoke to him in the hallways.

He didn’t notice Hermione trying to get his attention after their Care of Magical Creatures lesson. She gave up and stomped away with her housemates, and Harry had no idea why Draco kept snickering.

 

The day before the match, the winds reached howling point and the rain fell harder than ever. Snug inside their underwater dungeon, the Slytherin students rarely had any indication what the weather was until they reached the Great Hall and its enchanted ceiling; when Harry walked in to breakfast to find a storm overhead, his spirits drooped.

It was so dark inside the corridors and classrooms that extra torches and lanterns were lit. The Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw teams were looking smug, and Harry wasn’t the only one of his teammates to pause unhappily at every window. Draco wore a smirk that Harry longed to wipe off his pointed face, but he resisted the urge to say anything, reminding himself that his position as starting Seeker was still a sore point for his friend.

“I hope it blows itself out before tomorrow,” Draco said brightly.

Harry resisted the urge to dump his pumpkin juice on the other boy’s neat blonde head.

The first class of the day was Defense Against the Dark Arts, where they all got a nasty surprise. Instead of shabby, cheerful Professor Lupin waiting for them, Professor McGonagall sat at the teacher’s desk looking especially severe with her tight black bun and dark green robes.

Harry gaped; he wasn’t the only one.

“Kindly take your seats,” McGonagall said, frowning at the way they all lingered in the doorway. The class hurried to do what she said, but they whispered and muttered to themselves. Only when everybody was seated—and silent—did McGonagall stand up and explain:

“I am afraid that Professor Lupin is too ill to attend classes today,” she told them. “I will be your substitute for this period. Now, as I believe that Hinkypunks are next on the agenda, that is what we will be discussing today. Please take out your books.”

Harry wasn’t the only one to groan; he had been hoping for a practical lesson, and not just because he enjoyed when Professor Lupin showed them strange creatures or taught them new spells. In his focus on the upcoming Quidditch match he had forgotten to read ahead. While Harry ordinarily only read the parts of their textbooks that were assigned, or necessary for an assignment, he had started skimming the next chapter for Lupin’s class ahead of time. His housemates were usually familiar with the creatures they were studying, from bedtime stories if nothing else, and Harry was tired of feeling left out.

“That’s enough,” McGonagall said sharply, one eyebrow raised over her square glasses.

Everybody went quiet; the Slytherins knew better than to bait the strict Transfiguation Professor under ordinary circumstances, and especially not the day before they played her Gryffindors in Quidditch.

Harry had to admit that Hinkypunks—small, one-legged creatures that looked like wisps of smoke and used lantern-like glows to lure unwary travelers away into bogs and marshes—were interesting, but he would have rather heard about them from kindly Professor Lupin. When Draco complained that it was hardly fair to stick them with McGonagall for a substitute, Harry had to agree, although he made sure she was out of earshot before he did.

Charms went better; while McGonagall hadn’t said anything about the upcoming Quidditch match, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that she was watching him, although her gaze was elsewhere every time he looked up. Flitwick, on the other hand, acted just the same as ever; Ravenclaw had always seemed to Harry to be less annoyed by Slytherin’s winning streak than the other two houses—possibly, as Blaise said, because most of their students were more interested in their books than their brooms, although Harry thought that was a short-sighted view of the matter.

Still, Flitwick very politely wished him luck tomorrow, with hopes for good weather, which Harry thought very nice (even if he’d probably said the same thing to all the Gryffindor players).

Staying to talk to Flitwick caused Harry to lag behind his friends, so he was just approaching the Slytherin table when he heard Draco’s indignant bellow of, “WHAT? THAT’S NOT FAIR AT ALL!”

Harry hurried to slide into his seat. “What is? What’s not fair?” he asked.

Draco turned to face him, pale face screwed up in dismay. “The Gryffindors got _Snape_ for a substitute.”

Harry blinked, confused. “Substitute what?”

“Lupin! That’s who covered Defense Against the Dark Arts for them—SNAPE! And he taught a lesson on werewolves—werewolves! We’re not due to cover those until the end of the year, I checked, but the Gryffindors already have!” Draco shook his head, disgusted. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe _they_ got _Snape_ , while we got stuck with McGonagall!”

Harry glanced over at the Gryffindor table. “I bet they’d have been happy to trade,” he said.

Draco huffed. “That’s not the point,” he retorted.

“Isn’t it?” Daphne asked drily, leaning across the able toward them. “They got our Head of House and we got theirs, on the day before the first Quidditch match of the year; doesn’t that seem to _you_ like someone’s playing games with us all?”

Harry glanced up at the staff table where Dumbledore sat cheerfully pouring a goblet of pumpkin juice for Professor McGonagall. He wondered if the headmaster looked more pleased with himself than he usually did, or if that was just his imagination.

“Could be,” he allowed. “Or maybe those were just the periods that Snape and McGonagall had free.”

Daphne rolled her eyes at him. “Whatever,” she said, and turned away to gossip with Pansy.

Despite his words, Harry couldn’t stop himself peeking at Dumbledore throughout the meal. At one point, the headmaster noticed him looking, and winked.

Harry gulped and didn’t look at the teachers again.

 

He woke slowly the next morning, shaking off a very confusing dream about black dogs and grey wolves drinking tea. Harry blinked and looked around, wondering why everything was so quiet. There were no snores from Crabbe’s bed, nor the usual wheeze from Theodore’s. Harry pulled his curtains open, letting in the hazy green light from the dormitory’s underwater windows, and then sat up with a jolt. The Quidditch match was today! Suddenly seized by nerves, Harry yanked his clothes on and hurried out of the dungeon up to the Great Hall, where he found most of his housemates already assembled, looking at the enchanted ceiling and discussing the weather.

It was terrible. Even inside, Harry could hear the wind roaring. The storm over their heads made the usually bright and cheerful Great Hall dim, heavy with clouds that matched the occasional rumble of distant thunder. Harry knew he would shortly be fighting his way through the real-life counterpart of that gale, and shivered. He joined his friends and forced himself to eat, although he couldn’t help looking up at the enchanted ceiling between each mouthful. He knew better than to think the match would be canceled; Quidditch matches weren’t called off for trifles like thunderstorms.

He sneaked a peek at the Gryffindor table. His opponents didn’t look any happier about the weather than he did, but Harry eyed the Gryffindor Seeker, Cormac McLaggenwith dismay. He was a fourth year boy who was a lot taller and broader than Harry. Ordinarily it was better for Seekers to be light and fast but in a storm like this, McLaggen’s weight would be an advantage because he was less likely to be blown off course.

Such was the popularity of Quidditch that the whole school turned out to watch the match as usual, but they ran down the lawns toward the Quidditch pitch, heads bowed against the ferocious wind, umbrellas being whipped out of their hands as they went. Crabbe and Goyle together managed to hold down the enourmous one that they were sharing with Draco. For once when Draco wished Harry luck, he didn’t seem even a little bit jealous not to be flying in his place. Harry waved goodbye to his friends and ducked into the locker room for a brief respite from the rain and Flint’s pre-match pep-talk.

The team changed into their emerald robes and clustered together for their captain’s speech. He didn’t have much to say this time: “Use the wind,” Flint growled. “Their Chasers are tiny. You aren’t. Knock ‘em off course and off their brooms. Hooch won’t be able to see too well either, so don’t worry about her. Play hard,” he told them, and Derrick and Bole cackled cheerfully and smacked their bats against their palms. Harry gulped, suddenly very glad that he wasn’t on the Gryffindor team. Their Beaters—burly red-headed troublemakers Fred and George Weasley—were a force to be reckoned with, but flying against them didn’t seem as scary as braving Derrick and Bole when they weren’t restrained by Madam Hooch’s eagle eyes.

Flint suddenly pointed at Harry. “You gonna be able to see the Snitch out there?” he asked.

Harry grinned and held up the goggles Draco had given him for his birthday. Flint replied with a pleased nod and Harry swapped the goggles for his glasses.

“Right,” Flint grunted, his crooked teeth exposed in a broad grin, “let’s go get muddy.”

The wind was so strong that they staggered sideways as they walked out onto the field. Once Harry slipped and Bletchley held him upright with one hand until he got his feet under him again. If the crowd was cheering they couldn’t hear it over the fresh rolls of thunder. Ran was splattering over Harry’s face, but it slid off his goggles like they were coated with oil. Harry made a mental note to thank Draco if they won.

The Gryffindors were approaching from the opposite side of the field, wearing bright scarlet robes. The Captains walked up to each other and shook hands; Flint leered at Wood but Wood looked as though he had some kind of lockjaw and merely nodded. Harry saw Madam Hooch’s mouth form the words, “Mount your brooms.” He pulled his right foot out of the mud with a squelch and swung it over his Nimbus Two Thousand-and-One. Madam Hooch put her whistle to her lips and gave it a blast that sounded shrill and distant—they were off.

Harry rose fast but his Nimbus was swerving slightly with the wind. He held it as steady as he could and turned, peering into the dark clouds. At least the bright gold of the Snitch would show up against the black skies, if Harry could pick it out through the thick curtains of rain.

Within five minutes Harry was soaked to the skin and frozen, hardly able to see his teammates or his opponents. The fact that when he _did_ catch sight of something it was clear, and not just a smeared blur of color, he attributed to his excellent goggles. Harry wondered absently just how expensive a present they had been. Whatever Draco had paid for them, he decided, they had been a good investment. If he had been wearing his glasses, he was sure he would have been as good as blind. He couldn’t hear the commentary over the wind, and had no idea what was going on in the rest of the game. The crowd was hidden beneath a sea of cloaks and battered umbrellas. Three times Harry came uncomfortably close to being unseated by a Bludger; the dark iron balls blended in so well with the clouds that he had barely seen them coming.

He lost track of time. It was getting harder and harder to hold his broom straight. The sky was getting darker, as though night had decided to come early. Once Harry almost hit another player without knowing whether it was a teammate or opponent; everyone was now so wet, and the rain so thick, he could hardly tell them apart...

With the first flash of lightning came the sound of Madam Hooch’s whistle; Harry could just see the outline of Flint through the thick rain, gesturing him to the ground. The whole team splashed down into the mud.

“Wood called for a time-out!” Flint shouted at his team. He didn’t look happy, though. “We’re fifty points down,” he snarled as the Slytherins gathered around him, several holding their robes over their heads in an effort to keep the worst of the rain off. “What are you doing out there?”

“They’re hard to see,” whined one of the Beaters. Harry couldn’t tell which, but the heavy bat he thumped against his thigh gave his position away. “And the Bludgers keep getting blown off-course!”

Harry shivered. If the heavy Bludgers were being affected by the wind, he’d be lucky if the Snitch hadn’t been blown clear to London by now.

“If the Bludgers are going off-course, so are their Chasers!” Flint snapped. “Knock ‘em off their brooms if you have to, but stop ‘em scoring more!”

Everyone nodded miserably as Flint turned to Harry. “What about you?” he asked.

“No sign of the Snitch yet,” Harry admitted, “but the lightning should help. It’ll probably be the only thing out there shiny enough to reflect it.”

Flint nodded. “Catch it fast,” he ordered.

Harry nodded fervently and they all mounted up again. Full of grim determination, he urged his broom through the turbulent air, staring in every direction for the Snitch, avoiding a Bludger and a Weasley—his shock of hair still bright even though his red robes were soaked through—then ricocheting off McLaggen’s shoulder when they both swerved around the same hoop.

There was another clap of thunder, followed immediately by forked lightning. Harry strained his eyes staring at the flash. This was getting more and more dangerous. He needed to get the Snitch quickly—

He turned, intending to head back toward the edge of the field, but at that moment, another flash of lightning illuminated the stands, and Harry saw something that distracted him completely—the silhouette of an emourmous shaggy black dog, clearly imprinted against the sky, motionless in the topmost, empty row of seats, waiting in the very direction Harry had planned to fly.

Harry’s numb hands slipped on the broom handle and his Nimbus dropped a few feet. Shaking his sodden bangs out of his eyes, he squinted back into the stands. The dog had vanished. Harry hesitated, then swerved over toward the place where it had been, hoping for a closer look. He was distracted by a glint of gold in the corner of his eye.

Harry was so dismayed by the grim apparition that it took him a moment to remember why that sight was so important. With a yelp, he hauled hard on his broomstick, turning it sharply into the wind, and took off after the glittering Snitch. He threw himself flat on his broomstick and zoomed toward it, silently cursing himself for being distracted.

Out of the corner of his eye Harry saw McLaggen racing toward him, the larger boy’s bulk helping him stay on course while Harry was buffeted by the wind. It would be close; he was faster than McLaggen, but had to fight the weather for every inch of ground....

“Come on!” he growled at his Nimbus as the rain whipped his face. “ _Faster!”_

But something odd was happening. An eerie silence was falling across the stadium. The wind, though as strong as ever, was forgetting to roar. It was as though someone had turned off the sound, as though Harry had gone suddenly deaf—what was going on?

And then a horribly familiar wave of cold swept over him, inside him, just as he became aware of something moving on the field below....

Before he’d had time to think, Harry had taken his eyes off the Snitch and looked down.

At least a hundred dementors, their hidden faces pointing up at him, were standing beneath him. It was as though freezing water were rising in his chest, cutting at his insides. And then he heard it again....Someone was screaming, screaming inside his head...a woman...

_“Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!”_

_“Stand aside, you silly girl...stand aside, now....”_

_“Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead—”_

Numbing, swirling white mist was filling Harry’s brain....What was he doing? Why was he flying? He needed to help her....She was going to die....She was going to be murdered....

He was falling, falling through the icy mist.

_“Not Harry! Please...have mercy...have mercy....”_

A shrill voice was laughing, the woman was screaming, and Harry knew no more.

 

“You sure he ain’t dead?”

“Yes, you moron, he’s breathing!”

“Good thing the ground was all soft and muddy.”

“I dunno, he looks pretty dead....”

Harry could hear the voices whispering, but they made no sense whatsoever. He didn’t have a clue where he was, or how he’d got there, or what he’d been doing before. All he knew was that every inch of him was aching as though it had been beaten.

“That was the scariest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“Quiet Granger, you’ll wake him!”

Scariest...the scariest thing...hooded black figures...cold...screaming...

Harry’s eyes snapped open. He was lying in the hospital wing. The Slytherin Quidditch team, spattered with mud from head to foot, was gathered around his bed. Draco and Hermione were there as well, Crabbe and Goyle looming anxiously behind them, all four of them looking as though they’d just climbed out of a swimming pool.

“Harry!” said Draco, shoving forward before anyone else could speak. “Are you all right?”

It was as though Harry’s memory was on fast forward. The lightning—the Grim—the Snitch—and the dementors...

“What happened?” he said, sitting up so suddenly they all gasped.

“You fell off,” Bletchley said flatly. “It was nearly—I don’t know—at least fifty feet.”

“Thought you were dead,” croaked Goyle.

Hermione made a small, squeaky noise. Her eyed were extremely bloodshot.

“But the match,” said Harry. “What happened? Are we doing a replay?”

No one said anything. His teammates exchanged dark looks. The horrible truth sank into Harry like a stone.

“We didn’t— _lose?_ ”

“McLaggen went right for the Snitch,” said Pucey disgustedly. “Flew right past you as you fell, caught the damn thing right before Hooch’s whistle blew. He’s been crowing pretty smugly about it too, what I’ve heard.”

Two pairs of cracking knuckles—those of Derrick and Boyle, and Crabbe and Goyle—made Harry think that McLaggen’s smugness wouldn’t last very long, but that didn’t make him feel much better.

Harry put his face to his knees, his hands gripping his hair. “We lost by a hundred and fifty points,” he moaned.

“Two hundred, actually,” Montague corrected him flatly. Harry groaned harder.

“We’re not out of the running yet,” Flint snarled. The look on his face was frightening. “If Gryffindor loses to Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, and we win the rest of our matches...”

“They’ll have to lose by a lot,” said Bole.

“Then we better hope they do,” Flint said grimly.

Harry lay there, not saying a word. They had lost, and it was all his fault. He kept his eyes shut, waiting for Flint to announce that Harry was off the team and Draco would be taking his position for the rest of the year, but they just kept talking about the margin of points they would need to take the Cup from Gryffindor.

After ten minutes or so, Madam Pomfrey came over to tell the team to leave him in peace.

“Pull yourself together, Potter,” Bletchley ordered. Harry managed a weak salute.

The team trooped out, trailing mud and grumbles behind them. Madam Pomfrey shut the door behind them, looking disapproving. Draco and Hermione moved closer to either side of Harry’s bed, Crabbe and Goyle looming behind Draco like very wet boulders.

“Dumbledore was really angry,” Hermione said in a quaking voice. “I’ve never seen him like that before. He ran onto the field as you fell, waved his wand, and you sort of slowed down before you hit the ground. Then he whirled his wand at the dementors. Shot silver stuff at them. They left the stadium right away....He was furious they’d come onto the grounds. We heard him—”

“He didn’t even wait for Madam Pomfrey,” Draco interrupted disapprovingly. “Magicked you onto a stretcher himself and floated you right up to the school.” His face was so pale it almost glowed, and his blond hair was plastered dark against his forehead. “We all thought...well...you looked pretty bad...”

His voice trailed off, but Harry hardly noticed. He was thinking about what the dementors had done to him...about the screaming voice. He looked up and saw his friends looking at him so anxiously that he quickly cast around for something matter-of-fact to say.

“Did someone get my Nimbus?”

Draco and Hermione both looked at the ground; Crabbe looked at the ceiling. Goyle just stared blankly.

“What is it?” Harry demanded.

“Well...when you fell off, it got blown away,” said Hermione hesitantly.

“And?”

“And it hit—it hit—oh, Harry—it hit the Whomping Willow.”

Harry’s insides lurched. He remembered his own painful meeting with the Whomping Willow last week-end.

“And?” he said, dreading the answer.

“Well, I don’t know if you’re familiar with the Whomping Willow,” Hermione said, “but as it’s described in the fourth appendix to—”

“I’m familiar,” Harry interrupted, teeth gritted. “What happened?”

“It obliterated it,” Draco said hoarsely.

“Professor Flitwick brought it back just before you came around,” Hermione said in a very small voice.

Slowly, she reached down for a bag at her feet, turned it upside down, and tipped a dozen bits of splintered wood and twigs onto the bed, the only remains of Harry’s beautiful broomstick.


	10. The Marauder's Map

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter (corresponding to Chapter Ten in the original publication, pages 183 to 210 in the American hardcover) will contain several sections of dialog and action lifted directly from the books in large chunks without much alteration, particularly in the lengthy conversation of the adults in the Three Broomsticks at the end of the chapter. Obviously the story they tell will be entirely unchanged, so you may skip that section if you wish to avoid repeated reading. I thought it was important to include because so much of Harry’s following actions hinge upon what he hears, and I wanted to detail what that was for anyone whose memory may not be quite clear on the matter. I apologize to those who find the repetition tedious.

Madame Pomfrey insisted on keeping Harry in the hospital wing for the rest of the weekend. He didn’t argue or complain but he wouldn’t let her throw away the shattered remnants of his Nimbus Two Thousand-and-One. He knew he was being stupid, knew that his broomstick was beyond repair, but Harry couldn’t help it; he felt as though he had lost one of his best friends.

He had a stream of visitors, all intent on cheering him up. Hagrid sent him a bunch of earwiggy flowers that looked like yellow cabbages, and Ginny Weasley, blushing furiously, turned up with a get-well card she had made herself, which sang shrilly unless Harry kept it shut under his bowl of fruit. The Slytherin team did not visit again, and Harry was just as glad not to see them; he was dreading when Flint would decide that Harry had recovered enough to be kicked off the team. Draco and Hermione both came in several times, Draco usually accompanied by Crabbe and Goyle and Hermione carrying far more schoolbooks than any one person should have. They usually avoided each other, but when they both turned up with Ancient Runes homework they gave up and spread their work out on opposite sides of Harry’s bed to sullenly study together. Goyle gave Harry half of his leftover Honeydukes candy (not that there was much left) and Crabbe kept offering to beat McLaggen up for him. But nothing anyone said or did could make Harry feel any better, because they knew only half of what was troubling him.

He hadn’t told anyone about the Grim, not even Draco or Hermione, because he feared Draco would panic and he was sure that Hermione would scoff. The fact remained, however, that it had now appeared twice, and both appearances had been followed by near-fatal accidents; the first time, he had nearly been run over by the Knight Bus; the second, fallen fifty feet from his broomstick. Was the Grim going to haunt him until he actually died? Was he going to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder for the beast?

And then there were the dementors. Harry felt sick and humiliated every time he thought of them. Everyone said the dementors were horrible, but no one else collapsed every time they went near one. No one else heard echoes in their head of their dying parents.

Because Harry knew who that screaming voice belonged to now. He had heard her words, heard them over and over again during the night hours in the hospital wing while he lay awake, staring at the strips of moonlight on the ceiling. When the dementors approached him, he heard the last moments of his mother’s life, her attempts to protect him, Harry, from Lord Voldemort, and Voldemort’s laughter before he murdered her....Harry dozed fitfully, sinking into dreams full of clammy, rotted hands and petrified pleading, jerking awake to dwell again on his mother’s voice.

 

It was a relief to return to the noise and bustle of the main school on Monday, where he was forced to think about other things, even if he had to endure the sight of Cormac McLaggen swanning smugly around the halls. All of the Gryffindors were insufferable, gleefully taking the piss out of Harry for fainting off his broomstick before he could catch the Snitch and giving their own mediocre Seeker a chance to catch up, but the worst were the Weasley twins. They performed spirited imitations of Harry falling off of his broom every time they saw him and, Harry suspected, probably found the joke just as funny even when he wasn’t around to bear witness.

That stopped when their little sister came up to them in the middle of a swooning fit and _screamed_ at them. The whole courtyard fell silent to watch. For once Fred and George had no clever retort. They slunk away looking like beaten dogs and Ginny, red-faced and furious, followed them out without pausing her lecture. The twins didn’t bother him again. Ginny’s gratitude toward Harry didn’t stop anyone else teasing him, though, and certainly did nothing to dent McLaggen’s ego. Harry tried to ignore the Gryffindor boy and his crowd of admirers.

Harder to ignore were his own teammates. Harry knew he was on thin ice. If he didn’t do something, Flint would pull him off the team—at least until Sirius Black was captured, if not permanently. Every time Flint looked their way, Harry could see Draco struggling to contain his own anticipation. Harry was glad that his friend tried to keep his excitement to himself, and couldn’t blame Draco for wanting to take Harry’s spot on the team, but it made him nervous.

At least that gave him something to think about other than his mother dying.

Finally midway through lunch on Wednesday, Harry came up with a plan. He led the way to Defense Against the Dark Arts, crossing his fingers that they wouldn’t have another substitute. He needed to talk to Professor Lupin.

Fortunately Lupin was back at work. It certainly looked as though he had been ill. His old robes were hanging more loosely on him and there were dark shadows beneath his eyes; nevertheless, he smiled at the class as they took their seats. There was a flurry of questions, but Lupin forestalled them all with a wave of his hand.

“No, you’re not going to miss out on meeting a hinkypunk, don’t worry. Since you’ve already covered the bookwork details with Professor McGonagall that just means we’ll have more time to focus on the practical aspect of dealing with the creature. And if we have time, I thought we’d talk about its folklore aspect as well—a little taste of Muggle Studies I suppose you could say, but with a Defense Against the Dark Arts twist of course…”

They had a very enjoyable lesson, despite Harry’s impatience for it to end. Professor Lupin had brought along a glass box containing the hinkypunk, a little one-legged creature who looked as though he were made of wisps of smoke, rather frail and harmless-looking.

“Lures travelers into bogs,” said Professor Lupin as they took notes. “You notice the lantern dangling from his hand? Hops ahead—people follow the light—then—”

The hinkypunk made a horrible squelching noise against the glass.

“Interestingly, hinkypunks are one of the few magical creatures that are found almost all over the world with very little regional variety. Called will-o’-the-wisps, chir batti, friar’s lanterns, aleya, and min min lights—among other colloquial nicknames—the creatures have been responsible for an untold number of Muggle deaths and disappearances. Several wizards have fallen prey to them over the years as well, despite our knowing to be wary of the creatures. This is in part no doubt due to the persistent rumors of treasure although there have been no accounts—no _reputable_ accounts,” Lupin corrected himself as Theodore’s hand shot into the air, “of anyone finding treasure at the end of a hinkypunk’s path. You’re far more likely to find yourself mired in mud and bog water, easy prey for the carnivorous little beasts.

“Since they’re only partly corporeal they are hard to combat. It’s much easier to simply refuse to follow the hinkypunk in the first place then to deal with it face-to-face, although it takes strength of will to resist their almost hypnotic allure…”

When the bell rang, everyone gathered up their things and headed for the door, but Harry made a beeline right to Professor Lupin’s desk.

“Sir,” he said, impatiently watching Professor Lupin cover the hinkypunk’s box with a cloth, “sir, can I have a word?”

“Of course, Harry,” said Lupin, turning back to his desk and starting to pile books into his briefcase. “I heard about the match, and I’m sorry about your broomstick. Is there any chance of fixing it?”

“No,” said Harry. “The tree smashed it to bits.”

Lupin sighed.

“They planted the Whomping Willow the same year that I arrived at Hogwarts. People used to play a game, trying to get near enough to touch the trunk. In the end, a boy called Davey Gudgeon nearly lost an eye, and we were forbidden to go near it. No broomstick would have a chance.”

Harry nodded, barely listening. “Did you hear about the dementors too?” he demanded.

Lupin looked at him quickly.

“Yes, I did. I don’t think any of us have seen Professor Dumbledore that angry. They have been growing restless for some time...furious at his refusal to let them inside the grounds....I suppose they were the reason you fell?”

“Yes,” said Harry. “Do you know why? You’re the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, you ought to know—”

“I think I do,” Lupin interrupted him calmly, “and it has nothing to do with any weakness on your part. The dementors affect you worse than the others because there are horrors in your past that the others don’t have.”

A ray of wintery sunlight fell across the classroom, illuminating Lupin’s gray hairs and the lines on his young face.

“Dementors are among the foulest creatures that walk this earth. They infest the darkest, filthiest places, they glory in decay and despair, they drain peace, hope, and happiness out of the air around them. Even Muggles feel their presence, though they can’t see them. Get too near a dementor and every good feeling, every happy memory will be sucked out of you. If it can, the dementor will feed on you long enough to reduce you to something like itself...soul-less and evil. You’ll be left with nothing but the worst experiences of your life. And the worst that happened to _you_ , Harry, is enough to make anyone fall off their broom. You have nothing to feel ashamed of.”

“Great,” said Harry, “but that won’t keep me on my broom if they come back next match.”

“I’m certain Dumbledore would never permit—”

“I can’t just rely on Dumbledore,” Harry said bluntly. “I need to know how to fight them.”

“Harry, I’m sorry, but there’s really nothing you can do...”

“You made the dementor on the train back off,” Harry insisted. “And Sirius Black escaped them.”

Lupin’s briefcase slipped from the desk; he had to stoop quickly to catch it.

“Yes,” he said, straightening up, “Black must have found a way to fight them. I wouldn’t have believed it possible....Dementors are supposed to drain a wizard of his powers if he is left with them too long....And there was only one dementors on the train, Harry. The more there are, the more difficult it becomes to resist.”

“But there is a way to fight them,” Harry said. “You can teach me how.”

“I don’t pretend to be an expert at fighting dementors, Harry...quite the contrary....”

“I need to be able to fight them myself, or I’m going to be taken off the Quidditch team,” Harry said. When Lupin still looked unconvinced, he added quietly, “Professor, do you know what I hear whenever they get near me?” Harry’s throat tightened but he forced himself to keep speaking. “I can hear You-Know-Who murdering my mum.”

Lupin made a sudden motion with his arm as though to grip Harry’s shoulder, but thought better of it. There was a moment’s silence, then he bowed his head. “All right,” Lupin said heavily, “I’ll try and help. But it’ll have to wait until next term, I’m afraid. I have a lot to do before the holidays. I chose a very inconvenient time to fall ill.”

Harry grinned. That would be enough for Flint, he was sure. “Thanks, professor,” Harry said.

What with the promise of anti-dementor lessons from Lupin, the thought that he might never have to hear his mother’s death again, and the fact that Ravenclaw flattened Hufflepuff in their Quidditch match at the end of November, Harry’s mood took a definite upturn. If Hufflepuff could beat Gryffindor, and Slytherin won all the rest of their matches, they might not be out of the running for the Cup. Just as Harry had hoped, his assurances to Flint that he would be getting special lessons on fighting dementors from Professor Lupin was enough for him to let Harry remain the primary Seeker, much to Draco’s badly-hidden disappointment. The Slytherin team worked hard in the chilly haze of rain that persisted into December, all of them determined to beat Ravenclaw in their next match. Harry saw no hint of a dementor within the grounds. Dumbledore’s anger seemed to be keeping them at their stations at the entrances.

Two weeks before the end of the term, the sky lightened suddenly to a dazzling, opaline white and the muddy grounds were revealed one morning covered in glittering frost. Inside the castle, there was a buzz of Christmas in the air. Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, had already decorated his classroom with shimmering lights that turned out to be real, fluttering fairies. The students were all happily discussing their plans for the holidays. Harry’s friends were all going home, but he heard Hermione telling Neville Longbottom that she was staying to use the library, so at least he wouldn’t be all alone in the school.

To everyone’s delight except Harry’s, there was to be another Hogsmeade trip on the very last weekend of the term.

Resigned to the fact that he would be the only third year staying behind again, Harry borrowed a copy of _Which Broomstick_ from Draco, and decided to spend his day reading up on the different makes. Draco kept urging him to just buy another Nimbus, but Harry felt somehow that it would be disloyal to replace his poor broomstick with another one just like it. He had been riding one of the school brooms at practice, an ancient Shooting Star, which was very slow and jerky; he definitely needed a new broom of his own.

On the Saturday morning of the Hogsmeade trip, Harry bid good-bye to Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle, who were wrapped in cloaks and scarves, then turned down the marble staircase alone and headed back toward the Slytherin Dungeon. Snow had started to fall outside the windows, and the castle was very still and quiet.

“Oi—Potter!”

He turned, halfway through the doorway that led to the dungeon corridors, to see Fred and George Weasley beckoning him from the far end of the entrance hall. Harry looked around nervously.

“What do you want?” he asked. “Shouldn’t you be in Hogsmeade by now?”

“We have matters of business to discuss before we go,” said one of the twins grimly.

“Business and honor,” the other added, just as dour.

Harry hesitated, feeling outnumbered and outmatched, but decided that whatever the twins wanted, it was better to get it over with quickly. He was getting tired of being rescued by Ginny Weasley. He followed them down a hallway and into a deserted classroom, one hand on the hilt of his wand. Harry jumped when the door closed behind him, and moved to stand out of reach against the opposite wall.

“What do you want?” he demanded again.

“We want to be square,” one of the twins said bluntly.

“Ginny’s right, we owe you—and we don’t like it.”

“It’s interfering with our fun, and making Gin right insufferable too. We can’t tell her off about it, though—”

“Because you _did_ save her life, and we can’t undervalue that.”

“So the only thing to do, we reckon, is to square things with you so that we can get on with stuff without having to worry about you any more. Actually square things with you, we mean—not just set you up for another joke.”

Harry frowned curiously. “Let me get this straight...you want to repay me for rescuing your sister, so you can start making fun of me again?”

The twins shrugged. “Pretty much, yeah,” one of them replied while the other nodded.

Harry frowned harder. “Okay...”

“Go on, Fred,” said the twin who had to be George.

Fred pulled something from inside his cloak with a flourish and laid it on one of the desks. It was a large, square, very worn piece of parchment with nothing written on it. Harry, suspecting a trick of some kind, stared at it.

“What’s that supposed to be?”

“This, Potter, is the secret of our success,” said George, patting the parchment fondly.

“It’s a wrench, giving it to you,” said Fred, “but we decided that it’s the only thing that’ll make us even again.”

“Anyway, we know it by heart, and we figure you and your slimy friends can make good use of it—especially you. So it ought to be a fair trade.”

Harry folded his arms. “And what do I need with a bit of old parchment?” he asked dubiously.

“A bit of old parchment!” said Fred, closing his eyes with a grimace as though Harry had mortally offended him. “I don’t know what else I expected from a Slytherin, but still! Explain it to him, George.”

“Well...when we were in our first year, Potter—young, carefree, and innocent—”

Harry made a rude noise of disbelief. He doubted whether the Weasley twins had ever been innocent.

Fred gave him a warning look so he shut-up and let George continue: “Well, more innocent than we are now—we got into a spot of bother with Filch.”

“We let off a Dungbomb in the corridor and it upset him for some reason—”

“So he hauled us off to his office and started threatening us with the usual—”

“—detention—”

“—disembowelment—”

“—and we couldn’t help noticing a drawer in one of his filing cabinets marked _Confiscated and Highly Dangerous_.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “So of course the first thing you thought of—”

“And what would you have done, ignored it?” Fred retorted. “George caused a diversion by dropping another Dungbomb, I whipped the drawer open, and grabbed— _this_.”

“It’s not as bad as it sounds, you know,” said George. “We don’t reckon Filch ever found out how to work it. He probably suspected what it was, though, or he wouldn’t have confiscated it.”

Harry thought he saw where this joke was going now, but didn’t see any way to get out of if without playing his part through to the end. At least there wasn’t an audience this time. He sighed and said dutifully, “Let me guess, you figured it out?”

“Oh yes,” said Fred, smirking. “This little beauty’s taught us more than all the teachers in this school.”

“I can believe that,” Harry said snidely, looking at the ragged old bit of parchment. “And now you want to show me how it works.”

“Want to?” George said. “No. Need to, to pay off our debt? Yes.”

He took out his wand, touched the parchment lightly, and said, _“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”_

And at once, thin ink lines began to spread like a spider’s web from the point that George’s wand had touched. They joined each other, they crisscrossed, they fanned into every corner of the parchment; then words began to blossom across the top, great, curly green words, that proclaimed:

 _Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs_  
Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers  
are proud to present  
**THE MARAUDER’S MAP**

It was a map showing every detail of the Hogwarts castle and grounds. But the truly remarkable thing were the tiny ink dots moving around it, each labeled with a name in minuscule writing. Astounded in spite of himself, Harry bent over it. A labeled dot in the top left corner showed that Professor Dumbledore was pacing his study; the caretaker’s cat, Mrs. Norris, was prowling the second floor; and Peeves the Poltergeist was currently bouncing around the trophy room. And as Harry’s eyes traveled up and down the familiar corridors, he noticed something else.

This map showed a set of passages he had never entered. And many of them seemed to lead—

“Right into Hogsmeade,” said Fred, tracing one of them with his finger. “Right where you can’t get to. There are seven in all.” He hesitated, exchanging a heavy glance with his twin. George, looking unhappy about it, nodded. Fred sighed and continued reluctantly, “Filch knows about these four” —he pointed them out grudgingly— “but we’re sure we’re the only ones who know about _these_. Don’t bother with the one behind the mirror on the fourth floor, not unless you really _like_ being buried in rubble and want to relieve your glory days from last year. We used it until last winter, but it’s caved in—completely blocked,” he explained. “And we don’t reckon anyone’s ever used this one, because the Whomping Willow’s planted right over the entrance and—well, you learned for yourself why _that’s_ a bad idea. See, we weren’t lying to you before—just neglected to mention all the facts.” The twins paused to chuckle; Harry smiled thinly and waited for Fred to continue. “But this one here, this one leads right into the cellar of Honeydukes. We’ve used it loads of times.”

“Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs,” sighed George, patting the heading of the map. “We owe them so much.” He looked up at Harry sharply. “But owing you—that’s a different matter. We don’t like that, and we figure this has to balance it, yeah?”

Harry bit his lip and stared at the map, still waiting for the other shoe to drop. The twins were staring at him expectantly though, so he jerked his chin in a small nod.

“Right,” said George briskly. “Then it’s a deal. You can tell Ginny we’re square—”

“And you can tell your little friends the same,” Fred said darkly. “It’s up to you whether you share this with them or not, but we better not hear that they’ve been going around claiming that we owe them anything, because if we _do_ —”

“I’ll explain things,” Harry said hurriedly, before the twins could detail their plans for retribution.

“You better,” said George simply. “Now, don’t forget to wipe the map after you’ve used it—”

“—or anyone can read it,” Fred said warningly.

“Just tap it again and say, ‘Mischief Managed!’ And it’ll go blank.”

“If you forget and get caught with it, you didn’t get it from us,” Fred growled.

Harry nodded quickly. “My lips are sealed,” he promised, still half-sure this was a prank but wondering how.

Both Gryffindors suddenly held out their hands, their matching freckled faces grim.

Harry nervously shook hands with the twins one after the other, sealing the deal.

“Don’t make us regret this,” George cautioned.

“I already do,” grumbled Fred.

“I won’t,” said Harry, but the twins had turned their backs on him. They left the room, both their shoulders hunched unhappily.

Harry stood there, gazing at the miraculous map, wondering what the catch was. He watched the tiny ink Mrs. Norris turn left and pause to sniff at something on the floor. If Filch really didn’t know...he wouldn’t have to pass the dementors at all....

But he couldn’t possibly trust the Weasley twins. The last time he had followed their advice, he had almost gotten brained by a feisty tree—although Fred was right, technically they hadn’t lied to him; according to the map the Whomping Willow _did_ lead to a passage away from Hogwarts, albeit a ridiculously dangerous one...and since he already couldn’t go to Hogsmeade, not being able to get there with the map wouldn’t leave him any worse off than he was before....

Harry traced the secret passage to Honeydukes with his finger.

Then, quite suddenly, as though following orders, he rolled up the map, stuffed it inside his robes, and hurried to the door of the classroom. He opened it a couple of inches. There was no one outside, no audience of Gryffindors gathered to laugh as Harry fell victim to another prank. Very carefully, he edged out of the room and hurried down to the dungeons.

Even if the map was some elaborate trick, there was one thing the Weasley twins hadn’t counted on: Harry’s Invisibility Cloak. With that over his head, he would be able to traverse the passageway shown on the map with impunity. Even if something did go wrong, the Weasleys wouldn’t have anything to laugh at, because they wouldn’t be able to see Harry when it happened. And neither would anyone else, such as Filch if this was really some ploy to get him in trouble trying to sneak out—although Harry had to admit that turning someone in to Filch did not seem the Weasleys’ style.

With his schoolbag now stuffed full of not only his dad’s Invisibility Cloak, but also his regular outdoors cloak, scarf, and hat, Harry hurried up to the hallway where the secret passage had been marked. He looked around and saw a statue of a one-eyed witch, just like on the map. But what did he do next?

He pulled the map out again and saw, to his astonishment, that a new ink figure had appeared upon it, labeled _Harry Potter_. This figure was standing exactly where the real Harry was standing, about halfway down the third-floor corridor. Harry watched carefully. His little ink self appeared to be tapping the witch with his minute wand. Harry quickly looked around, then took out his real wand and tapped the statue. Nothing happened. He looked back at the map. The tiniest speech bubble had appeared next to his figure. The word inside said, _“Dissendium.”_

 _“Dissendium!”_ Harry whispered, tapping the stone witch again.

At once, the statue’s hump opened wide enough to admit a fairly thin person. Harry glanced quickly up and down the corridor another time, then tucked the map away again, hoisted himself into the hole headfirst, and pushed himself forward.

He slid a considerable way down what felt like a stone slide, long enough for him to be swamped with regrets and second thoughts, then landed on cold, damp earth. He stood up, looking around. It was pitch dark. Moving by feel, Harry pulled his dad’s cloak out of his bag. Only when he was safely invisible did he hold up his wand. He muttered, _“Lumos!”_ and saw that he was in a very narrow, low, earthy passageway. He imagined gasps of surprise from the audience at the light that seemed to come from nowhere, but there was nobody there to watch—and no sign of the Weasley twins. Harry raised the map, tapped it with the tip of his wand, and muttered, “Mischief managed!” The map went blank at once. He folded it carefully, tucked it inside his robes, then, heart beating fast, both excited and apprehensive, he set off.

The passage twisted and turned, more like the burrow of a giant rabbit than anything else. Harry hurried along it, stumbling now and then on the uneven floor and the hem of his cloak, holding his wand out in front of him.

It took ages, but Harry had the thought of Honeydukes to sustain him against his worries that this was going to turn out to all be some kind of trick. After what felt like an hour, the passage began to rise. Panting, Harry sped up, his face hot under the cloak, his feet very cold.

Ten minutes later, he came to the foot of some worn stone steps, which rose out of sight above him. Careful not to make any noise, Harry began to climb. A hundred steps, two hundred steps, he lost count as he climbed, watching his feet....Then, without warning, his head hit something hard.

It seemed to be a trapdoor. Harry stood there, massaging the top of his head, listening. He couldn’t hear any sounds above him. Very slowly, trying not to let the Invisibility Cloak fall, he pushed the trapdoor open and peered over the edge.

He was in a cellar, which was full of wooden crates and boxes. Harry climbed out of the trapdoor and replaced it—it blended so perfectly with the dusty floor that it was impossible to tell it was there. Harry crept slowly toward the wooden staircase that led upstairs. Now he could definitely hear voices, not to mention the tinkle of a bell and the shutting of a door.

Harry edged up the stairs, his ears burning with how closely he was listening, and fumbled with the door latch. Holding his breath, he eased the door open a crack. The bustle of noise on the other side didn’t change so Harry pushed it open a little wider, a little wider, until finally he could slip through. He eased the door shut behind him, then looked around. He found himself behind the counter at what had to be Honeydukes. Harry edged sideways away from the door, then stopped to look around, safe under his cloak. He had to suppress a laugh as he imagined the look that would spread over Dudley’s piggy face if he could see where Harry was now.

Honeydukes was so crowded with Hogwarts students that Harry doubted anyone would look twice at him even if he were visible. In fact, he quickly found that being invisible was a dangerous prospect as he tried to edge through the crowd only to be elbowed, pushed, trodden on, and shoved by people who didn’t see him. He finally gave up and climbed onto a barrel labeled “Finest Fudge Flies,” careful not to let his trainers poke out the bottom of his cloak.

Safe from being trampled now, Harry looked around. There were shelves upon shelves of the most succulent-looking sweets imaginable. Creamy chunks of nougat, shimmering pink squares of coconut ice, fat, honey-colored toffees; hundreds of different kinds of chocolate in neat rows; there was a large barrel of Every Flavor Beans, and another of Fizzing Whizbees, the levitating sherbet balls that Goyle had been so enamored of; along yet another wall were “Special Effects” sweets: Droobles Best Blowing Gum (which filled a room with bluebell-colored bubbles that refused to pop for days), the strange, splintery Toothflossing Stringmints, tiny black Pepper Imps (“breathe fire for your friends!”), Ice Mice (“hear your teeth chatter and squeak!”), peppermint creams shaped like toads (“hop realistically in the stomach!”), fragile sugar-spun quills, and exploding bonbons.

Harry looked around for his friends—certain that Crabbe and Goyle had to be nearby—and saw a sign hanging in the farthest corner of the shop (Unusual Tastes). He recognized a shock of white-blond hair and grinned. Draco was standing impatiently underneath the sign while Crabbe and Goyle examined the available treats. Harry hopped down off his barrel and, dodging elbows and feet, sneaked up behind them.

“Aren’t you two done yet?” Draco demanded. “You’ve already got three of everything else in the shop, do you _really_ want blood-flavored lollipops and cockroach clusters?”

“We said we were gonna get some of everything,” Crabbe insisted.

“Fine,” Draco sneered, “but if you buy it, I say you have to eat it.”

Goyle hesitated, his hand halfway into a jar of something that looked disturbingly like raw fingers.

“I agree,” said Harry. “You buy it, you eat it.”

Goyle yelped and nearly dropped the jar.

Draco spun around and Crabbe’s jaw fell open.

“Wha—where—Potter?”

Harry chuckled. “I’m right here,” he said, slipping a hand out of the Invisibility Cloak so he could wave. The panic on his friends’ faces faded, but Harry still laughed to himself about the fright he had given them.

“How did you get here? Why are you wearing the Cloak? Did Snape change his mind?”

“Nope,” Harry said, “I sneaked out.”

Very impressed, all three of them clamored to know how he had managed that. Harry grinned proudly and waved their questions away, promising to explain later—somewhere more private. That was enough incentive to tear even Crabbe and Goyle away from their explorations of Honeydukes. Harry waited smugly while his friends paid for their sweets (he took the opportunity of being invisible to get one over on Weasley, knocking his Bertie Botts Beans out of his hand so that the red-haired Gryffindor and his friends had to scramble around to pick up all the beans, swearing every time someone stepped on their fingers) then followed Draco and the others outside into the thick, swirling snow.

Harry shivered, glad that he was dressed warmly underneath the Invisibility Cloak.

Hogsmeade looked like a Christmas card: the little thatched cottages and shops were all covered in a layer of crisp snow; there were holly wreathes on the doors and strings of enchanted candles hanging in the trees. They headed up the street, heads bowed against the wind, Draco and Harry letting Crabbe and Goyle go first like a sort of living wind-block.

Harry kept getting separated from his friends as they walked because he stopped to gawk at all the unfamiliar sights. Since they couldn’t see him, they didn’t notice, and he had to run to catch-up. It made for tricky story-telling; Harry gave-up and just followed as Draco pointed out the different treats that Hogsmeade had to offer. Fortunately no one would find that suspicious; everyone who knew them was used to Draco explaining things for Crabbe and Goyle and wouldn’t think twice of him doing it now for an invisible Harry’s benefit.

He saw one thing that made him pause with something other than delight: a notice had been tacked to the corner of Zonko’s Joke Shoppe:

— BY ORDER OF —

**THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC**

_Customers are reminded that until further notice,_  
dementors will be patrolling the streets of Hogsmeade  
every night after sundown. This measure has been put  
in place for the safety of Hogsmeade residents and  
will be lifted upon the recapture of Sirius Black. It  
is therefore advisable that you complete your  
shopping well before nightfall.

_Merry Christmas!_

Harry shuddered, not liking the reminder of either Black or the dementors that were hunting for him. He decided to make sure he was back in the castle well before the sun went down—even though he thought Black would have to be even madder than people said he was if he thought he could sneak around a place as crowded as Hogsmeade—not unless he had an Invisibility Cloak as good as Harry’s, anyway!

Finally getting tired of having Harry wander off in the middle of a sentence, Draco suggested that they retire to the Three Broomsticks for a Butterbeer. “That sounds brilliant,” Harry said; Draco jumped, having thought that Harry was standing on the other side of him. (Harry kept switching position to make his friends twitch.) “I don’t think I like this not-being-able-to-see-you thing,” Draco grumbled. “Invisibility Cloaks are annoying when you’re not the one wearing them.”

Harry laughed.

They entered the tiny inn in a swirl of snow. It was extremely crowded, noisy, warm, and smoky. A curvy sort of woman with a pretty face was serving a bunch of rowdy warlocks up at the bar.

“Crabbe,” Draco ordered, “go get us drinks. That’s _four_ drinks, mind you.”

Crabbe shouldered his way up to the bar as Draco led the others to a table in the back of the room. There was a small vacant one between the window and a handsome Christmas tree, which stood next to the fireplace. Harry grinned his approval even though Draco couldn’t see him; it was warm and secluded, just the sort of place for someone in hiding. Crabbe came back three minutes later, carefully carrying four foaming tankards of hot butterbeer.

“Didn’t spill any,” he said proudly.

“Good for you,” Draco said, rolling his eyes as he raised his tankard.

Harry pulled his butterbeer inside his cloak and drank deeply. It was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted and seemed to heat every bit of him from the inside.

“Right,” Draco said, putting his drink down with a clank, “now tell us everything.”

Harry didn’t bother to point out that his friend was looking into empty space somewhere past his left shoulder rather than at his face. He explained about the Weasley twins and their mysterious map. Draco looked dubious while Crabbe and Goyle seemed stupefied. Harry was on the verge of pulling the map out to show it to his friends when a sudden breeze ruffled his cloak. He looked at the door and froze.

Professors McGonagall and Flitwick had just entered the pub with a flurry of snowflakes, shortly followed by Hagrid, who was deep in conversation with a portly man in a lime-green bowler hat and a pinstriped cloak—Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic.

“You better hide!” Goyle whispered hoarsely. Before Harry could explain that he was invisible and thus already perfectly hidden, Goyle had lunged forward and grabbed the Christmas tree next to their table. With a grunt of effort, the burly boy dragged the potted fir backwards in front of their table, hiding all four of them—not just Harry—from view. Harry saw Draco massage his forehead like he had a headache and Harry laughed, quickly smothering the noise when he saw through the dense green branches that the teachers were heading their way.

Draco made shushing motions at Crabbe and Goyle, who sat frozen. Confused, but knowing a direct order when they saw one, they held their tongues. Harry did the same as the professors and Fudge sat down. He leaned over to peer through the branches, and saw the pretty woman from the bar walk over to their table.

“A small gillywater—”

“Mine,” said Professor McGonagall.

“Four pints of mulled mead—”

“Ta, Rosmerta,” said Hagrid.

“A cherry syrup and soda with ice and umbrella—”

“Mmm!” said Professor Flitwick, smacking his lips.

“So you’ll be the red currant rum, Minister.”

“Thank you, Rosmerta, m’dear,” said Fudge. “Lovely to see you again, I must say. Have one yourself, won’t you? Come and join us....”

“Well, thank you very much, Minister.”

Harry made a face as Rosmerta walked away. He had hoped to overhear something interesting between Fudge and their teachers, not listen to the Minister flirt with a bar maid. He might as well slip away—except that he was the only one invisible, and if his friends tried to leave now, McGonagall would want to know why they had been hiding behind the Christmas tree. She was far too sharp not to suspect they’d been trying to eavesdrop. Harry settled in for what he hoped would be a short conversation and sullenly nursed his butterbeer.

Rosmerta returned and settled in at the table next to Fudge. “So what brings you to this neck of the woods, Minister?” she asked.

Harry saw Fudge’s pinstripes shift behind the branches of the tree, as though he were twisting all around to check for eavesdroppers. Fortunately he didn’t think to look behind the decorations, saying in a quiet voice, “What else, m’dear, but Sirius Black? I daresay you heard what happened up at the school at Halloween?”

“I did hear a rumor,” admitted Rosmerta.

“Did you tell the whole pub, Hagrid?” said Professor McGonagall exasperatedly. Draco covered his mouth with his sleeve to smother a laugh. Harry thought about kicking him in the ankle, but Draco was the type to yelp when injured.

None of the teachers or their guests seemed to have heard himwant a; Rosmerta was saying in a low whisper, “Do you think Black’s still in the area, Minister?”

“I’m sure of it,” said Fudge shortly.

“You know that the dementors have searched the whole village twice?” said Rosmerta, a slight edge to her voice. “Scared all my customers away....It’s very bad for business, Minister.”

“Rosmerta, m’dear, I don’t like them any more than you do,” said Fudge uncomfortably. “Necessary precaution...unfortunate, but there you are....I’ve just met some of them. They’re in a fury against Dumbledore—he won’t let them inside the castle grounds.”

“I should think not,” said Professor McGonagall sharply. “How are we supposed to teach with those horrors floating around?”

“Hear, hear!” squeaked tiny Professor Flitwick. Harry doubted that his feet could even reach the ground.

“All the same,” demurred Fudge, “they are here to protect you all from something much worse....We all know what Black’s capable of....”

“Do you know, I still have trouble believing it,” said Rosmerta thoughtfully. “Of all the people to go over to the Dark Side, Sirius Black was the last I’d have thought....I mean, I remember him when he was a boy at Hogwarts. If you’d told me then what he was going to become, I’d have said you’d had too much mead.”

“You don’t know the half of it, Rosmerta,” said Fudge gruffly. “The worst he did isn’t widely known.”

Harry and Draco exchanged an interested glance—or would have, if Draco had been able to see Harry. They both sat up straighter on their stools, leaning in to listen.

“The worst?” said Rosmerta, her voice alive with the same curiosity that Harry felt. “Worse than murdering all those poor people, you mean?”

“I certainly do,” said Fudge.

“I can’t believe that. What could possibly be worse?”

Draco made a face, like Rosmerta was being soft-hearted. Harry decided it was probably just as well he couldn’t ask his friend why he wasn’t as upset about all the dead people as Rosmerta was. Draco didn’t take criticism well, either.

“You say you remember him at Hogwarts, Rosmerta,” murmured Professor McGonagall. “Do you remember who his best friend was?”

“Naturally,” said Madame Rosmerta, with a small laugh. “Never saw one without the other, did you? The number of times I had them in here—ooh, they used to make me laugh. Quite the double-act, Sirius Black and James Potter!”

It was Harry’s turn to smother his reaction with his sleeve, but he wasn’t laughing. The cloak around his legs shifted, as if someone had just tried to kick him in the ankle and missed. Harry was too fixed on the adults’ words to care.

“Precisely,” said McGonagall. “Black and Potter. Ringleaders of their little gang. Both very bright, of course—exceptionally bright, in fact—but I don’t think we’ve ever had such a pair of troublemakers—”

“I dunno,” chuckled Hagrid. “Fred and George Weasley could give ‘em a run for their money.”

Harry had never been less interested in hearing about Fred and George Weasley. He silently cursed Hagrid, and hoped that the others wouldn’t let him change the subject.

Flitwick was still focused on what mattered, though: “You’d have thought Black and Potter were brothers! Inseparable!”

“Of course they were,” said Fudge. “Potter trusted Black beyond all his other friends. Nothing changed when they left school. Black was best man when James married Lily. Then they named him godfather to Harry. Harry has no idea, of course. You can imagine how the idea would torment him.”

“Because Black turned out to be in league with You-Know-Who?” whispered Rosmerta.

“Worse even than that, m’dear....” Fudge dropped his voice and proceeded in a sort of low rumble. “Not many people are aware that the Potters knew You-Know-Who was after them. Dumbledore, who was of course working tirelessly against You-Know-Who, had a number of useful spies. One of them tipped him off, and he alerted James and Lily at once. He advised them to go into hiding. Well, of course, You-Know-Who wasn’t an easy person to hide from. Dumbledore told them that their best chance was the Fidelius Charm.”

“How does that work?” said Rosmerta, breathless with interest. Professor Flitwick cleared his throat.

“An immensely complex spell,” he said squeakily, “involving the magical concealment of a secret inside a single, living soul. The information is hidden inside the chosen person, or Secret-Keeper, and is henceforth impossible to find—unless, of course, the Secret-Keeper chooses to divulge it. As long as the Secret-Keeper refused to speak, You-Know-Who could search the village where Lily and James were staying for years and never find them, not even if he had his nose pressed against their sitting room window!”

“So Black was the Potters’ Secret-Keeper?” whispered Rosmerta.

“Naturally,” said McGonagall. “James Potter told Dumbledore that Black would die rather than tell where they were, that Black was planning to go into hiding himself...and yet, Dumbledore remained worried. I remember him offering to be the Potters’ Secret-Keeper himself.”

“He suspected Black?” gasped Rosmerta.

“He was sure that somebody close to the Potters had been keeping You-Know-Who informed of their movements,” said Professor McGonagall darkly. “Indeed, he had suspected for some time that someone on our side had turned traitor and was passing a lot of information to You-Know-Who.”

“But James Potter insisted on using Black?”

“He did,” said Fudge heavily. “And then, barely a week after the Fidelius Charm had been performed—”

“Black betrayed them?” breathed Rosmerta.

“He did indeed. Black was tired of his double-agent role, he was ready to declare his support openly for You-Know-Who, and he seems to have planned this for the moment of the Potters’ death. But, as we all know, You-Know-Who met his downfall in little Harry Potter. Powers gone, horribly weakened, he fled. And this left Black in a very nasty position indeed. His master had fallen at the very moment when he, Black, had shown his true colors as a traitor. He had no choice but to run for it—”

“Filthy, stinkin’ turncoat!” Hagrid said, so loudly that half the bar went quiet. Harry could hear Goyle slurping his butterbeer but was too engrossed in the story about his parents and their supposed best friend to do anything about it. McGonagall shushed Hagrid, but it didn’t do any good, which at least masked any other noises.

“I met him!” growled Hagrid. “I musta bin the last ter see him before he killed all them people! It was me what rescued Harry from Lily an’ James’s house after they was killed! Jus’ got him outta the ruins, poor little thing, with a great slash across his forehead, an’ his parents dead...an’ Sirius Black turns up, on that flyin’ motorbike he used ter ride. Never occurred ter me what he was doin’ there. I didn’ know he’d bin Lily an’ James’s Secret-Keeper. Thought he’d jus’ heard the news o’ You-Know-Who’s attack an’ come ter see what he could do. White an’ shakin’, he was. An’ yeh know what I did? I COMFORTED THE MURDERIN’ TRAITOR!” Hagrid roared.

“Hagrid, please!” said Professor McGonagall. “Keep your voice down!”

“How was I ter know he wasn’ upset abou’ Lily an’ James? It was You-Know-Who he cared abou’! An’ then he says, ‘Give Harry ter me, Hagrid, I’m his godfather, I’ll look after him—’ Ha! But I’d had me orders from Dumbledore, an’ I told Black no, Dumbledore said Harry was ter go ter his aunt an’ uncle’s. Black argued, but in the end he gave in. Told me ter take his motorbike ter get Harry there. ‘I won’t need it anymore,’ he says.

“I shoulda known there was somethin’ fishy goin’ on then. He loved that motorbike, what was he givin’ it ter me for? Why wouldn’ he need it anymore? Fact was, it was too easy ter trace. Dumbledore knew he’d bin the Potters’ Secret-Keeper. Black knew he was goin’ ter have ter run fer it that night, knew it was a matter o’ hours before the Ministry was after him.

“ _But what if I’d given Harry to him, eh?_ I bet he’d’ve pitched him off the bike halfway out ter sea. His bes’ friend’s son! But when a wizard goes over ter the Dark Side, there’s nothin’ and no one that matters to ‘em anymore....”

A long silence followed Hagrid’s story. Then Rosmerta said with some satisfaction, “But he didn’t manage to disappear, did he? The Ministry of Magic caught up with him next day!”

“Alas, if only we had,” said Fudge bitterly. “It was not we who found him. It was little Peter Pettigrew—another of the Potters’ friends. Maddened by grief, no doubt, and knowing that Black had been the Potters’ Secret-Keeper, he went after Black himself.”

“Pettigrew...that fat little boy who was always tagging around after them at Hogwarts?” said Rosmerta.

“Hero-worshiped Black and Potter,” said McGonagall. “Never quite in their league, talent-wise. I was often rather sharp with him. You can imagine how I—how I regret that now....” She sounded as though she had a sudden head cold.

“There, now, Minerva,” said Fudge kindly, “Pettigrew died a hero’s death. Eyewitnesses—Muggles, of course, we wiped their memories later—told us how Pettigrew cornered Black. They say he was sobbing, ‘Lily and James, Sirius! How could you!’ And then he went for his wand. Well, of course, Black was quicker. Blew Pettigrew to smithereens....”

Professor McGonagall blew her nose and said thickly, “Stupid boy...foolish boy...he was always hopeless at dueling...should have left it to the Ministry....”

“I tell yeh, if I’d got ter Black before little Pettigrew did, I wouldn’t’ve messed around with wands—I’d’ve ripped him limb—from—limb,” Hagrid growled.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Hagrid,” said Fudge sharply. “Nobody but trained Hit Wizards form the Magical Law Enforcement Squad would have stood a chance against Black once he was cornered. I was Junior Minister in the Department of Magical Catastrophes at the time, and I was one of the first on the scene after Black murdered all those people. I—I will never forget it. I still dream about it sometimes. A crater in the middle of the street, so deep it had cracked the sewer below. Bodies everywhere. Muggles screaming. And Black standing there laughing, with what was left of Pettigrew in front of him...a heap of bloodstained robes and a few—a few fragments—”

Fudge’s voice stopped abruptly. There was the sound of five noses being blown.

“Well, there you have it, Rosmerta,” said Fudge thickly. “Black was taken away by twenty members of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad and Pettigrew received the Order of Merlin, First Class, which I think was some comfort to his poor mother. Black’s been in Azkaban ever since.”

Rosmerta let out a long sigh.

“Is it true he’s mad, Minister?”

“I wish I could say that he was,” said Fudge slowly. “I certainly believe his master’s defeat unhinged him for a  while. The murder of Pettigrew and all those Muggles was the action of a cornered and desperate man—cruel...pointless. Yet I met Black on my last inspection of Azkaban. You know, most of the prisoners in there sit muttering to themselves in the dark; there’s no sense in them...but I was shocked at how _normal_ Black seemed. He spoke quite rationally to me. It was unnerving. You’d have thought he was merely bored—asked if I’d finished with my newspaper, cool as you please, said he missed doing the crossword. Yes, I was astounded at how little effect the dementors seemed to be having on him—and he was one of the most heavily guarded in the place, you know. Dementors outside his door day and night.”

“But what do you think he’s broken out to do?” said Rosmerta. “Good gracious, Minister, he isn’t trying to rejoin You-Know-Who, is he?”

“I daresay that is his—er—eventual plan,” said Fudge evasively. “But we hope to catch Black long before that. I must say, You-Know-Who alone and friendless is one thing...but give him back his most devoted servant, and I shudder to think how quickly he’ll rise again....”

There was a small chink of glass against wood. Someone had set down their glass.

“You know, Cornelius, if you’re dining with the headmaster, we’d better head back up to the castle,” said Professor McGonagall.

One by one, the branch-obscured shapes on the other side of the tree rose from their stools. Cloaks swung over shoulders, Rosmerta tripped back up to the bar, and the teachers and the Minister walked away from their table. The door of the Three Broomsticks opened again, there was another flurry of snow, and the teachers had disappeared.

For a long time, nobody at Harry’s table moved.

Eventually Crabbe nudged Draco, and asked if he was going to finish his butterbeer. Draco, looking paler than usual and very nervous, shook his head without looking at Crabbe. The large boy drained the tankard in one gulp, then looked around. “Anybody want another one?” he asked. “Greg? Potter?”

“Harry should...Harry should get back to the castle,” Draco said, not even trying to look at the invisible boy next to him. “We all should.”

Suddenly feeling like he couldn’t breathe, Harry wrenched his cloak off of his head. He pressed his hands flat on the table as the world spun around him, and sucked in gulps of air that didn’t seem to reach his lungs.

“Harry...you okay?”

“Fine,” said Harry, not feeling fine at all. “I’m fine.”

“Well,” said Crabbe, “I’m getting another one.”

Nobody else said anything at all.

 


	11. The Firebolt

Harry didn’t have a very clear idea of how he had managed to get back into the Honeydukes cellar, through the tunnel, and into the castle once more. All he knew was that the return trip seemed to take no time at all, and that he hardly noticed what he was doing, because his head was still pounding with the conversation he had just heard.

Why had nobody ever told him? Dumbledore, Hagrid, Cornelius Fudge...did Draco’s father know? Why hadn’t anyone ever mentioned the fact that Harry’s parents had died because their best friend had betrayed them?

Harry’s friends avoided looking at him all through dinner, none of them daring to talk about what they’d overheard around their housemates. Harry saw Fred and George looking at him and he managed a curt nod. They nodded back grimly and proceeded to ignore him, apparently not in the mood to resume their teasing right away, for which Harry was glad. He was in no mood for pranks. After dinner when Harry and his friends went downstairs to the crowded common room, everyone was in such high spirits about the end-of-term and the upcoming holidays that the usually cool, soothing dungeon room echoed with loud talk and laughter. It set Harry’s teeth on edge.

He stomped through the shrill jocularity and down the stairs to the empty dormitory. Harry headed straight for his bedside cabinet. He pushed his books aside and quickly found what he was looking for—the leather-bound photo album Hagrid had given him two years ago, which was full of wizard pictures of his mother and father. He sat down on his bed and started turning the pages, searching, until...

He stopped on a picture of his parents’ wedding day. There was his father waving up at him, beaming, the untidy black hair Harry had inherited standing up in all directions. There was his mother, alight with happiness, arm in arm with his dad. And there...that must be him. Their best man...Harry had never given him a thought before.

If he hadn’t known it was the same person, he would never have guessed it was Black in this old photograph. His face wasn’t sunken and waxy, but handsome, full of laughter. Had he already been working for Voldemort when this picture had been taken? Was he already planning the deaths of the two people next to him? Did he realize he was facing twelve years in Azkaban, twelve years that would make him unrecognizable?

 _But the dementors don’t affect him_ , Harry thought, staring into the handsome, laughing face. _He doesn’t have to hear my mum screaming if they get too close—_

Harry heard footsteps creeping down the stairs. He looked up as the dormitory door opened to reveal Draco, pointed face drawn, peeking around the corner. Draco opened his mouth, but Harry spoke first:

“Did you know?”

Draco tensed like a rabbit about to run. “Know what?” he asked. His voice was too high.

“Did you know that Sirius Black was my dad’s best friend?”

Draco shook his head very quickly. “No,” he said, “I didn’t. I didn’t know.”

Harry glared, searching his friend’s face for a lie. “You’re sure,” he said.

Draco met his eyes for only a moment before looking away. “I didn’t know,”  he said softly. “I told you, he was kicked out of the family years before I was even born.”

“Fine,” said Harry. He slammed the photo album shut, reached over and stuffed it back into his cabinet. He looked up at Draco, who was still watching him skittishly. “What?” Harry asked.

“Well, I just...I mean, I was wondering if...I wanted to make sure that...”

“I’m tired,” Harry lied, “spit it out.”

“Don’t do anything stupid, okay?” Draco blurted.

“Stupid like what?” said Harry.

“Like go looking for Sirius Black!” Draco looked like the words were nearly strangling him. Bright pink spots stood out on his pale cheeks, and he had twisted the sleeves of his robes into sweaty ribbons.

Harry stared at his friend. In the morning, Draco would go home to his house and his parents. And Harry would be here, alone, with only photographs of the mother and father he couldn’t remember to comfort him. And that was all because of Sirius Black.

“Why would I go looking for him?” Harry asked dully.

Draco looked relieved, but still anxious. “Right,” he said, with a nervous little laugh, “because that would be mental. Why would you make it _easier_ for a maniac to kill you? You’re not stupid.”

“No,” said Harry flatly, “I’m not stupid.”

He turned away from Draco and pulled his robe off. Harry got into his pajamas stiffly, as if his limbs had forgotten how clothes worked, then took off his glasses and climbed into bed. He pulled the heavy green hangings, making sure they closed tightly.

After a few moments, the dormitory door closed, and he heard Draco’s footsteps retreat up the stairs.

Harry lay on his back, staring straight ahead, not even trying to sleep. A hatred such as he had never known before was coursing through him like poison. He could see Black laughing at him through the darkness, as though somebody had pasted the picture from the album over his eyes. He watched, as though somebody was playing him a piece of film, Sirius Black blasting Peter Pettigrew (who resembled Goyle) into a thousand pieces. He could hear (though having no idea what Black’s voice might sound like) a low, excited mutter. “It has happened, My Lord...the Potters have made me their Secret-Keeper....” And then came another voice, laughing shrilly, the same laugh that Harry heard inside his head whenever the dementors drew near....

 

Harry hadn’t gotten to sleep until daybreak but he awoke to the sounds of his dormmates leaving. He lay very still under his blankets and pretended to still be asleep. The sounds faded up the stairs until there was just one awkwardly-shuffling set of footsteps outside his curtains. Harry held his breath. Eventually the clatter of sharp heels on the stone staircase told him that he was alone at last.

He lay there unmoving for several minutes to be sure that everyone was gone. When he figured the train to London ought to be leaving the station, he finally sat up and groped for his glasses. He felt hollow and pinched, like someone had pulled out all his insides and replaced them with lumps of cotton. Harry dressed on autopilot and trudged upstairs, hoping to have the common room to himself.

He almost got his wish: there was only one other Slytherin staying for the holidays, a surly-faced fifth year who glared at Harry before diving back behind a thick book. That was enough solitude for a while, but eventually the sound of a quill scraping parchment worked on Harry’s nerves. He wasn’t hungry enough to eat breakfast, so he decided to go for a walk. Out of habit, Harry stuffed his Invisibility Cloak in his bag before he left the dungeons.

His aimless steps took him up to the owlery first, but while Hedwig was happy to see him, the sight of his pretty white owl just reminded him that he had no parents to send holiday letters to. He soon moved on, wandering the school in silent solitude while visions of Sirius Black swam in front of his eyes. He peeked into the library and saw that Hermione Granger had stayed for the holidays as well, but she was surrounded by such a daunting pile of books that he backed-away without saying hello. Harry would have liked to go flying but he still hadn’t ordered a new broom and the idea of dealing with one of the slow school brooms was depressing.

His next plan was to go talk to Hagrid. He returned to the dungeons for his cloak and gloves, ignoring the glare he got from the fifth year for interrupting, and trudged out to the grounds. Hagrid wasn’t in his hut but Harry didn’t have anything else to do, so he went looking for him. When he finally found the gamekeeper, though, he wasn’t alone.

Harry hesitated, not wanting to interrupt. Hagrid was cheerfully grooming the small flock of hippogriffs while Professor Lupin leaned on the paddock fence. Harry had just made up his mind to go and say hello anyway—even possibly being forced to show-off his Hippogriff riding skills for Lupin didn’t seem too terrible a prospect—when Hagrid’s booming voice rang-out through the cold air:

“Well o’course Harry don’t know! Who would’ve tol’ him, eh?”

Harry froze. Professor Lupin was facing away from him and Hagrid was bent over the gray hippogriff. Neither of them had seen him yet. Working fast, Harry opened his bag and pulled out his Invisibility Cloak. He threw it over his head and hurried closer.

He was just in time to hear the end of Lupin’s reply: “—suppose not, but it feels dishonest, keeping it from him.”

“Ah, well, Dumbledore said best not ter mention it,” was Hagrid’s content response.

Harry seethed. They had to be talking about Sirius Black, about the fact that he had been friends with Harry’s parents, about how he had _betrayed_ them. So Lupin knew too, did he?

“I know, I know. And it would only upset him I’m sure,” Lupin agreed, “and there’s no good reason to put him through that, but I admit, I’m worried about him. About what he might do, about how he might feel if he finds out...”

“An’ that’s why nobody’s tellin’ 'im,” Hagrid said.

Lupin nodded. “I just don’t want him to do anything reckless,” he said. “He does seem the sort who might.  Did you know he’s asked me to teach him how to cast a Patronus? In his third year!”

“A’cos o’ them dementors comin’ ter the Quidditch match?” Sometimes Hagrid was shrewder than he looked. Harry would have to remember that.

“That’s right. He also had some trouble with them on the train. I think they affect him so strongly—because of what happened when he was young—when Voldemort—” Lupin seemed to choke on his words.

Hagrid shuffered. “’Orrible creatures,” he said, “just ‘orrible. Make me feel ruddy terrible too. Gotta walk past ‘em ev’ry time I want a drink in the Three Broomsticks. ‘S like bein’ back in Azkaban—”

“How bad is it there, really?” Lupin’s voice was soft. Harry crept closer to listen.

“Yeh’ve no idea,” said Hagrid quietly. “Never bin anywhere like it. Thought I was goin’ mad. Kep’ goin’ mad. Kep’ goin’ over 'orrible stuff in me mind...the day I got expelled from Hogwarts...day me dad died...day I had ter let Norbert go....”

His eyes filled with tears. The hippogriff he had stopped combing turned to nip at his hand. Hagrid petted the beast on its beak and it rubbed against him.

“Yeh can’ really remember who yeh are after a while. An’ yeh can’ see the point o’ livin’ at all. I used ter hope I’d jus’ die in me sleep....When they let me out, it was like bein’ born again, ev’rythin’ came floodin’ back, it was the bes’ feelin’ in the world. Mind, the dementors weren’t keen on lettin’ me go.”

“I’d imagine not,” Lupin said dryly. He sighed, then appeared to change the subject: “You’re sure you can locate an acromantula for the seventh years to practice on?”

“They ain’t gonna hurt him though, right?” Hagrid asked, looking anxious.

“I won’t let them do any damage,” Lupin reassured him.

Harry made a face. Was nobody going to trust him to make his own decisions? Dumbledore, Hagrid, Lupin, even Draco—everybody wanted to keep him away from Sirius Black, keep him safe from the man who’d killed his parents. Did any of them stop to think that maybe he didn’t _want_ to be kept safe? Maybe he _wanted_ to find Black?

Not wanting to listen to Hagrid and Lupin any more, Harry stomped back to the castle. The usual magnificent Christmas decorations had been put up, despite the fact that hardly any of the students remained to enjoy them. Thick streamers of holly and mistletoe were strung along the corridors, mysterious lights shone from inside every suit of armor, and the Great Hall was filled with its usual twelve Christmas trees, glittering with golden stars. A powerful and delicious smell of cooking pervaded the corridors, but Harry still wasn’t hungry.

He spent the rest of the day flipping through old copies of _Which Broomstick_ and nibbling on Honeydukes. When his fellow Slytherin went to dinner leaving Harry alone in the common room, he found a discarded set of Exploding Snap cards and tossed them one by one into the fireplace, watching the smoky blasts and imagining doing the same thing to Sirius Black.

On Christmas morning he found a small pile of presents waiting at the foot of his bed.

There was nothing from the Malfoys this year, although Harry had not been expecting anything given that Draco was supposed to be staying away from him. Much to his surprise there was a package from the Weasleys: a large block of homemade fudge and a knitted jumper. Confused, Harry double-checked the name tag to make sure it was addressed to him. Then he realized that like Ginny Weasley’s defense of him to her brothers, this had to be one of the rewards for his going into the Chamber of Secrets last year. He nibbled the fudge. It wasn’t good enough to be worth facing a dead Dark Lord, but it was very good.

Harry wondered if the others had gotten presents. He grinned and wished he could see Draco’s face when he opened his gifts. Then he thought of how Draco’s parents would probably react to the reminder that their son had been in danger and his mood sobered in a hurry. Wanting a distraction, Harry discarded the crumpled envelope from the Dursleys without opening it and picked up a long, thin package without any nametag.

Harry ripped the parcel open and gasped as a magnificent, gleaming broomstick rolled out onto his bedspread. His jaw dropped.

It was a Firebolt, identical to the dream broom Harry had gone to see every day in Diagon Alley. Its handle glittered as he picked it up. He could feel it vibrating and let go; it hung in midair, unsupported, at exactly the right height for him to mount it. His eyes moved from the golden registration number at the top of the handle, right down to the perfectly smooth, streamlined birch twigs that made up the tail.

He looked again for a note but although he checked the paper inside and out he couldn’t find one. Could this be from the Malfoys? But no—surely even they wouldn’t spend _this_ kind of money on him. Especially given that he was the reason why Draco was only a reserve player. Harry didn’t know Draco’s parents well, but he’d have to have been stupider than Goyle not to notice that his friend was spoiled. The problem was, the Malfoys were the only wealthy people he knew who cared about him at all—a wild thought struck him, but Harry dismissed it immediately. There was no way that Sirius Black would try and trick him with a broom. Besides, this was a Firebolt! It wasn’t Cursed, it was _perfect_.

Harry took his broom up to the common room and devoted himself to examining the Firebolt. Suddenly he was interesting enough to talk to; the surly fifth year, Taylor Alden, came over, mouth hanging open in undisguised envy. They spent the rest of the morning admiring his broom.

At lunchtime they went down to the Great Hall together to find that the House tables had been moved against the walls, and that a single table, set for eleven, stood in the middle of the room. Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape, Sprout, and Flitwick were there, along with Filch, the caretaker, who had taken off his usual brown coat and was wearing a very old and rather moldy-looking tailcoat. There were only three other students, two extremely nervous-looking first years and a tired-looking Hermione.

“Merry Christmas!” said Dumbledore as the two Slytherins approached the table. “As there are so few of us, it seemed foolish to use the House tables....Sit down, sit down!”

Harry sat next to Hermione and grinned at her. “Merry Christmas, Harry,” she said.

“Crackers!” said Dumbledore enthusiastically, offering the end of a large silver noisemaker to Snape, who took it reluctantly and tugged. With a bang like a gunshot, the cracker flew apart to reveal a large, pointed witch’s hat topped with a stuffed vulture.

Harry, remembering the story about Longbottom’s boggart, avoiding meeting the Potion Master’s eye. Snape’s mouth thinned and he pushed the hat toward Dumbledore, who swapped it for his wizard’s hat at once.

“Dig in!” he advised the table, beaming around.

As Harry was helping himself to roast potatoes, the doors of the Great Hall opened again. It was Professor Trelawney, gliding toward them as though on wheels. She had put on a green sequined dress in honor of the occasion, making her look more than ever like a glittering, oversized dragonfly.

“Sibyll, this is a pleasant surprise!” said Dumbledore, standing up.

“I have been crystal gazing, Headmaster,” said Professor Trelawney in her mistiest, most faraway voice, “and to my astonishment, I saw myself abandoning my solitary luncheon and coming to join you. Who am I to refuse the promptings of fate? I at once hastened from my tower, and I do beg you to forgive my lateness....”

“Certainly, certainly,” said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling. “Let me draw you up a chair—”

And he did indeed draw a chair in midair with his wand, which revolved for a few seconds before falling with a thud between Professors Snape and McGonagall. Professor Trelawney sank gracefully into her seat. McGonagall’s lips were thin and Snape sniffed as though he smelled something unpleasant; Harry had to hide a grin at the sight of the two longtime rivals united in their opinion of the Divination teacher.

Professor Trelawney looked around the table. “But where is dear Professor Lupin?”

“I’m afraid the poor fellow is ill again,” said Dumbledore, indicating that everybody should start serving themselves. “Most unfortunate that it should happen on Christmas Day.”

“But surely you already knew that, Sibyll?” said Professor McGonagall, her eyebrows raised.

Professor Trelawney gave Professor McGonagall a very cold look.

“Certainly I knew, Minerva,” she said quietly. “But one does not parade the fact that one is All-Knowing. I frequently act as though I am not possessed of the Inner Eye, so as not to make others nervous.”

“That explains a great deal,” said Professor McGonagall tartly.

Professor Trelawney’s voice suddenly became a good deal less misty.

“If you must know, Minerva, I have seen that poor Professor Lupin will not be with us for very long. He seems aware, himself, that his time is short. He positively fled when I offered to crystal gaze for him—”

“Imagine that,” said Professor McGonagall dryly.

“I doubt,” said Dumbledore, in a cheerful but slightly raised voice, which put an end to Professor McGonagall and Professor Trelawney’s conversation, “that Professor Lupin is in any immediate danger. Severus, you’ve made the potion for him again?”

“Yes, Headmaster,” said Snape.

“Good,” said Dumbledore. “Then he should be up and about in no time....Derek, have you had any of these chipolatas? They’re excellent.”

The first-year boy went furiously red on being addressed directly by Dumbledore, and took the platter of sausages with trembling hands.

Professor Trelawney behaved almost normally for most of the dinner, until Hermione knocked over the salt cellar. Hermione swept-up the spilled salt with an embarrassed apology. “My dear!” Trelawney cried when she reached for the pitcher of pumpkin juice again, “You forgot to throw a pinch over your shoulder!”

Hermione frowned. “Excuse me?”

“The salt, my dear, the salt! You must throw a pinch over your shoulder or it will bring terribly bad luck.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Hermione said. “I’m not going to make _more_ of a mess than I already have just because of some—some silly superstition.” Her voice was shrill.

“Silly superstition!” Professor Trelawney looked highly affronted. “My dear, the very vicissitudes of fate may rest upon your—”

“My tossing a bit of seasoning on the floor?” Hermione said dismissively. Harry laughed.

“Leave it alone, Sibyll,” Professor McGonagall said. “Given the amount of salt and other things that are spilled in this room on a daily basis, the fact that the castle hasn’t yet fallen down around our ears should prove that there is very little harm in forgoing such empty gestures.”

Trelawney pretended not to hear McGonagall. “This sort of closed-mindedness is why you will never be a Seer,” she told Hermione.

She stood up, her face very pink. “If you will excuse me Headmaster, Professors,” she said stiffly, “it was a lovely dinner. Merry Christmas.”

Harry jumped up and followed her out. Behind him he heard McGonagall say, “Really Sibyll, there was no call for—”

“Hey,” he caught up to Hermione. “Guess what I got for Christmas?”

She blinked, startled. “Er...what?” It occurred to Harry that he probably should have come up with something of a segue, but he was too excited about his broomstick and was dying to tell somebody.

“A Firebolt!”

He beamed. Hermione looked confused. “That’s a broom, isn’t it?”

“It’s not just any broom!” Harry said.

“Well, I suppose that’s good. Now you have a replacement for your old one.”

“Yeah, and not just any replacement, but the best broom on the market!”

Hermione didn’t look elated. Harry remembered that as a Gryffindor, she had to root against him in Quidditch, even though she was his friend.  “Wow,” she said. “Who gave it to you?”

“I don’t know.”

Her face fell. “You don’t know?”

“Yeah, there wasn’t any note. I’ve been wondering if maybe it’s from the Malfoys. I don’t know anyone else who would send me anything like it, but Draco isn’t supposed to be talking to me this year, so I don’t want to write to him and get him in trouble, so I guess I’ll have to wait for him to get back to school to...why are you staring at me like that?”

Hermione chewed her lip. “It’s just that...well...you don’t think it’s a little weird? Someone sending you a broom like that and not even including a note?”

Harry shrugged. “Sure, but what can I do about it?”

“Don’t use it,” Hermione blurted.

“Excuse me?”

“The Firebolt—please don’t use it, Harry. I don’t think it’s safe!”

“Of course it’s safe. It’s a broomstick, Hermione! And not just any broomstick, it’s the fastest ever made! Of course I’m going to use it!”

“But you don’t know who it’s from.”

“Who cares? It’s a Firebolt!”

Hermione shook her head. Harry glared at her. “I’m going to fly it. And I’m going to win the Quidditch Cup too, and you can’t stop me.” He stomped away before she could say anything else.

Harry returned to the dungeon and got out the Broomstick Servicing Kit that she had given him for his birthday. He was of a mind to take care of his Firebolt; however, there were no twigs to clip, and the handle was so shiny already it seemed pointless to polish it. When Taylor came in from dinner, the two of them sat together staring at the broom, occasionally reaching out to brush fingers along its handle or stroke the tail.

“That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” said Taylor.

Harry nodded.

The common room entrance opened with a grinding of stones. Professor Snape stepped inside. He looked grimmer than usual. Harry and Taylor slid apart. Snape’s eyes flicked between them. A wave of his hand sent the fifth year into retreat. Snape walked to Harry, his black robes flapping.

“So this is your new broomstick,” he said. “Very pretty. And there was no note, you say?”

Harry shook his head.

“Very interesting. Well, Potter, I’m afraid I will have to take it.”

“You what?” Harry scrambled to his feet and stepped in front of his Firebolt.

“Your broom, Potter. Hand it over.”

“No. Why? No.”

Snape’s eyes flashed. “Because it must be checked for jinxes, of course. It will be closely inspected by myself, and by Professor Flitwick and Madam Hooch. If, and I stress the unlikelihood of this, if it is found to be clean of tampering, you may have it back.”

“How—how long will all that take?”

“A few weeks, perhaps a month or two.”

“No!” said Harry. “Professor, please! We play Ravenclaw in three weeks!”

Snape was implacable. “The sooner you give me the broom, the sooner we can get started.”

“Did Hermione put you up to this? Yeah she’s my friend, but she’s also a Gryffindor, Professor! Whatever she said, you can’t believe—”

“Miss Granger brought her concerns to Professor McGonagall, who brought them to me. I admit that I was in no hurry to listen myself, but it was too convincing an argument to ignore. The broom must be inspected.”

Harry stood pleading with his eyes. Snape didn’t blink. There was nothing to do but step aside and let the Potions Master take his Firebolt. He tried one last time: “There’s nothing wrong with it. Please—”

“As you are no expert in Dark Magic,” Snape said coldly, “the only way for you to know that it is safe is to fly it and find out. That seems an unwise course of action to me. Regardless it is not your choice; as long as you are in my House, your safety is my responsibility.” He ran a speculative finger down the Firebolt’s handle, then lifted the broom in both hands. “I will inform you when the tests are concluded.”

As Snape turned to go, Harry asked, “But _why?_ ”

“You don’t know who sent it,” Snape explained slowly. “The list of possibilities is slim, but surely you are not so dense that you cannot think of at least a few names.”

“Why does it matter who sent it?”

“Potter...” Snape hesitated, his scowl almost lifting for a moment. He sighed and said, apparently incongruously, “Goblins do not like to consider themselves bound by the laws of ordinary wizards. For them gold is a sacred duty, and the Ministry is not allowed to interfere at Gringotts.” Harry nodded slowly, wondering what that had to do with his broomstick. Snape continued, “The Black family are all quite wealthy. Ask your friend Mr. Malfoy if you don’t believe me, he’s one of them.”

“I was going to ask Draco about it when he got back to school,” Harry said, “but if you think he sent it, then why—”

“I do not believe that Draco sent you that broom,” Snape interrupted him. “But I think that someone related to him probably did.” He nodded curtly and left, taking the Firebolt with him.

Harry flopped into a chair, his head spinning. The broom couldn’t have come from Sirius Black—could it?


	12. The Patronus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following chapter includes Harry’s first two dementor lessons with Lupin, the original text of which can be found on pages 236 through 243, and again starting on page 245 of the American hardcover. While the first section has been transcribed nearly exactly the second contains a definite departure from the original text so I recommend not skipping over that section even if you do skim through the first. And as always, thank you for your patience and encouragement.

Harry couldn’t forgive Hermione. He had been the owner of the best broom in the world for a few short hours, and now, because of her interference, he didn’t know whether he would ever see it again. He was positive that there was nothing wrong with the Firebolt now, but what sort of state would it be in once it had been subjected to all sorts of anti-jinx tests?

“I was just trying to help!” she protested, when Harry confronted her the next day.

“Help sabotage Slytherin’s chances, you mean,” Harry retorted.

“What? Is that what you think? I can’t believe you!”

“Well I can’t believe you went running to McGonagall to get my broomstick taken away just because your Seeker couldn’t catch a Quaffle if someone threw it at his head!”

“How dare you!” Hermione’s eyes filled with tears. “For the record,” she said stiffly, “I barely even care about Quidditch. And if this is how you’re going to act when somebody is concerned for your safety, well, then I barely care about you, either!”

She stormed away. Harry wasn’t sorry to see her go.

When the rest of the school returned shortly after New Year, Harry had to tell his friends everything. He had been holding out hope that Draco would fess-up to being behind the Firebolt’s arrival so that they could explain things to Snape and rescue the broom, but he was as shocked and outraged by the story of Harry’s brief ownership of a Firebolt as anyone. All of them were furious with Hermione. Draco was so upset he even forgot to be outraged that the Weasleys had sent them all presents.

He was all for putting something nasty in Hermione’s pumpkin juice, but Harry didn’t want to start a war with the Gryffindors, not when the Weasley twins were no longer bound by their sister’s orders to leave him alone. Crabbe suggested stealing the broom back, but when Harry explained that Snape was the one who had it, he changed his mind. Goyle asked why Harry hadn’t just flown it the moment he’d unwrapped it; then there would be no question that it was safe to fly.

“I wish I had,” Harry said glumly.

Marcus Flint and the rest of the Slytherin team were every bit as horrified, but even Flint’s most passionate arguments couldn’t convince Snape to yield. Harry poured over the pages of _Which Broomstick_ and struggled to resign himself to the loss of his brand new Firebolt.

 

Classes started again the next day. The last thing anyone felt like doing was spending two hours on the grounds on a raw January morning, but Hagrid had provided a bonfire full of salamanders for their enjoyment, and they spent an unusually good lesson collecting dry wood and leaves to keep the fire blazing while the flame-loving lizards scampered up and down the crumbling, white-hot logs.

Harry always tried to behave in Care of Magical Creatures, because much as he liked Hagrid he also knew that the large professor had an unfortunate blind-spot when it came to dangerous creatures, and Harry knew that any disruption could lead to things getting out-of-hand quickly. Despite Seamus Finnigan’s mishap with the hippogriff at the start of term the Gryffindors didn’t share his caution, and it wasn’t long before Ron Weasley and Finnigan himself were playing an idiotic game of catch with flaming twigs. Hagrid was too busy talking to Hermione to notice.

“Bet they can’t catch a lizard,” Goyle said, after a narrow miss made the spectators gasp.

“They’re salamanders, actually, which is very different in that a mere lizard would never be able to—”

But Draco’s attempt to explain the difference meant that he was too busy pontificating to stop Crabbe from doing something stupid. Taking Goyle’s words as a challenge, Crabbe immediately shouldered his way past Thomas and reached right into the fire and grabbed a salamander.

“Catch this—” he started to say, but then his eyes bugged out and his face turned as red as a brick and he let out an unearthly shriek as his sleeve, glove, and skin ignited.

There was a great deal of screaming and panicking and people bumping into each other. Crabbe staggered around, waving his arm like a flaming torch, and shaking off Harry’s attempt to make him drop and roll on the ground to put the fire out. Hermione shrieked and grabbed onto Hagrid’s arm, preventing the gamekeeper from doing anything, although from the slack-jawed look of horror on his face he might not have been able to act anyway.

In the end it was Weasley who put the fire out with a jet of water from his wand. Crabbe looked at his blistered hand and dropped to the ground in a dead faint. Weasley gaped. “I wasn’t—I just—Mum made sure we knew that one. Fred and George like to blow things up—it just seemed the thing to do—I dunno what else—”

Leaving Weasley sputtering by the fire, Hagrid scooped up Crabbe as if he weighed no more than a puppy and carried him up to the hospital wing, half the class on his heels.

“It’s just like Professor Trelawney said,” gasped Lilian Moon. “In our very first lesson!”

“That’s right!” agreed Millicent Bulstrode, “She warned him about fire magicks!”

The girls clasped hands and _ooh_ -ed dramatically.

“If she really saw this coming and didn’t do anything to stop it, she’d be responsible for him being hurt, you know,” Hermione said.

For once Slytherin and Gryffindor stood united: Lilian and Millicent turned ugly glares on Hermione. So did Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil. “You can’t go messing with the future,” Parvati said coolly. “That’s dangerous.”

“Duh, Granger,” sneered Pansy, who as far as Harry knew had no opinion on Professor Trelawney either way, but who would never miss a chance to bait a Gryffindor, “everybody knows _that_.”

“Fate isn’t to be trifled with,” Lavender informed them all loftily.

“I’ll trifle with it,” Goyle said, slapping a fist into his meaty palm. “Professor or no, Trelawney can’t get away with hurting our mate.”

It took Draco and Harry a good ten minutes to explain to Goyle that Professor Trelawney wasn’t actually responsible for Crabbe getting burned. He didn’t look convinced, but Draco ended the matter by ordering Goyle to forget about it, and not say or do anything to Trelawney. Goyle huffed unhappily, but nodded.

Just then Madam Pomfrey came out of the hospital wing. “Good heavens!” she cried, looking around at the crowd gathered in the hallway. “What on earth is all this about? Surely you’re not all so concerned about a little burn? What nonsense! Go on, shoo! You’ve all got classes, so go to them!”

The students let themselves be shooed, even Goyle. By the time the Slytherins had assembled in Transfiguration fifteen minutes later, Crabbe was recovered enough to join them, although his hand was still very pink. He seemed no worse for wear for his ordeal, beaming around cheerfully at everyone who rushed over to see if he was all right.

“Squished the salamander,” he confessed happily to Harry and the others. “Prof’ssor Hagrid cried when he saw. Didn’t mean to,” he added quickly when Harry frowned. “Madam Pomfrey said it wasn’t my fault anyway. Just a ‘natural reflects’ due to pain.” Crabbe looked very pleased with himself and spent the first five minutes of the lesson admiring his fading blisters while Professor McGonagall explained the theory behind animated stone.

No one dared misbehave in the strict witch’s classroom, but the moment class ended most of the Slytherins flocked around Crabbe. “Wait until Professor Trelawney finds out!” Lillian gasped.

“Shouldn’t she already know?” Draco whispered to Harry. He snorted but pretended to cough instead when Millicent glared at him.

While the news of her successful prediction did indeed brighten Professor Trelawney’s day, the first Divination lesson of the new term was still not much fun; Trelawney was now teaching them palmistry, and she lost no time in informing Harry that he had the shortest life line she had ever seen. Harry was soon glad that Crabbe had burned himself: Trelawney spent most of the class pouring over Crabbe’s hand and pointedly bemoaning the fact that she “could barely read his palm through the blisters” despite the fact that they were almost gone. Since that meant she wasn’t telling Harry how he was about to die, he was happy to let her grandstand.

It was Defense Against the Dark Arts that Harry was keen to get to; fearing that he might not be able to rely on the speed of his new Firebolt to carry him out of the reach of any dementors, he wanted to get started on his lessons for fighting them as soon as possible.

“Ah yes,” said Lupin, when Harry reminded him of his promise at the end of class. “Let me see...how about eight o’clock on Thursday evening? The History of Magic classroom should be large enough....I’ll have to think carefully about how we’re going to do this....We can’t bring a real dementor into the castle to practice on....”

“He might not be a total incompetent, but he still dresses like a bum,” Draco complained as they walked down the corridor, heading to Charms. “And it looks like he was swallowed by a hippogriff and spat out again. What on earth do you think can be wrong with him that Professor Snape and Madam Pomfrey together can’t cure?”

“No idea,” said Harry, “but given the looks of that potion Snape brewed for him, it must be something pretty miserable. I wouldn’t drink something that disgusting unless I was dying.”

“You don’ think it’s catching, do you?”

“Don’t be a fool, Goyle,” Draco answered, a little too fast. “If whatever he’s got is contagious, do you really think they’d let him teach in a _school?_ Around all of us? Still...might be good to find out exactly _what_ he’s got....Try and see if you can get that out of him during your anti-dementor lessons, will you?”

“I’ll try,” Harry said dubiously, but he didn’t intend to put in much effort. Far more important, to his mind, was learning how to defeat a dementor so he could stop swooning whenever they came near. He wasn’t about to risk Lupin canceling his lessons because he’d taken offense at Harry being nosy.

 

At eight o’clock on Thursday evening, Harry left the Slytherin Dungeon for the History of Magic classroom. It was dark and empty when he arrived, but he lit the lamps with his wand and had waited only five minutes when Professor Lupin turned up, carrying a large packing case, which he heaved onto Professor Binns’s desk.

“What’s that?” said Harry.

“Another boggart,” said Lupin, stripping off his cloak. “I’ve been combing the castle ever since Tuesday, and very luckily, I found this one lurking inside Mr. Filch’s filing cabinet. It’s the nearest we’ll get to a real dementor. The boggart will turn into a dementor when he sees you, so we’ll be able to practice on him. I can store him in my office when we’re not using him; there’s a cupboard under my desk he’ll like.”

“Okay,” said Harry, trying to sound as though he wasn’t apprehensive at all and merely glad that Lupin had found such a good substitute for a real dementor.

“So...” Professor Lupin had taken out his own wand, and indicated that Harry should do the same. “The spell I am going to try and teach you is highly advanced magic, Harry—well beyond Ordinary Wizarding Level. It is called the Patronus Charm.”

“How does it work?” said Harry nervously.

“Well, when it works correctly, it conjures up a Patronus,” said Lupin, “which is a kind of anti-dementor—a guardian that acts as a shield between you and the dementor.”

Harry had a sudden vision of himself crouching behind a Hagrid-sized figure holding a large club. Professor Lupin continued, “The Patronus is a kind of positive force, a projection of the very things that the dementor feeds upon—hope, happiness, the desire to survive—but it cannot feel despair, as real humans can, so the dementors can’t hurt it. But I must warn you, Harry, that the charm might be too advanced for you. Many qualified wizards have difficulty with it.”

“What does a Patronus look like?” said Harry curiously.

“Each one is unique to the wizard who conjures it.”

“And how do you conjure it?”

“With an incantation, which will work only if you are concentrating, with all your might, on a single, very happy memory.”

Harry cast his mind about for a happy memory. Certainly, nothing that had happened to him at the Dursleys’ was going to do. Finally, he settled on the moment when he had first ridden a broomstick.

“Right,” he said, trying to recall as exactly as possible the wonderful, soaring sensation of his stomach.

“The incantation is this—” Lupin cleared his throat. “ _Expecto patronum!”_

 _“Expecto patronum,”_ Harry repeated under his breath, _“expecto patronum.”_

“Concentrating hard on your happy memory?”

“Oh—yeah—” said Harry, quickly forcing his thoughts back to that first broom ride. _“Expecto patrono—_ no, _patronum—_ sorry— _expecto patronum, expecto patronum—_ ”

Something whooshed suddenly out of the end of his wand; it looked like a wisp of silvery gas.

“Did you see that?” said Harry excitedly. “Something happened!”

“Very good,” said Lupin, smiling. “Right, then—ready to try it on a dementor?”

“Yes,” Harry said, gripping his wand very tightly, and moving into the middle of the deserted classroom. He tried to keep his mind on flying, but something else kept intruding....Any second now, he might hear his mother again...but he shouldn’t think that, or he _would_ hear her again, and he didn’t want to...or did he?

Lupin grasped the lid of the packing case and pulled.

A dementor rose slowly from the box, its hooded face turned toward Harry, one glistening, scabbed hand gripping its cloak. The lamps around the classroom flickered and went out. The dementor stepped from the box and started to sweep silently toward Harry, drawing a deep, rattling breath. A wave of piercing cold broke over him—

 _“Expecto patronum!”_ Harry yelled. _“Expecto patronum! Expecto—_ ”

But the classroom and the dementor were dissolving....Harry was falling again through thick white fog, and his mother’s voice was louder than ever, echoing inside his head— _“Not Harry! Not Harry! Please—I’ll do anything—”_

_“Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!”_

“Harry!”

Harry jerked back to life. He was lying flat on his back on the floor. The classroom lamps were alight again. He didn’t have to ask what had happened.

“Sorry,” he muttered, sitting up and feeling cold sweat trickling down behind his glasses.

“Are you all right?” said Lupin.

“Yes....” Harry pulled himself up on one of the desks and leaned against it.

“Here—” Lupin handed him a Chocolate Frog. “Eat this before we try again. I didn’t expect you to do it your first time; in fact, I would have been astounded if you had.”

“It’s getting worse,” Harry muttered, biting off the Frog’s head. “I could hear her louder that time—and him—You-Know-Who—”

Lupin looked paler than usual.

“Harry, if you don’t want to continue, I will more than understand—”

“I do!” said Harry fiercely, stuffing the rest of the Chocolate Frog into his mouth. “I’ve got to! What if the dementors turn up at our match against Ravenclaw? I can’t afford to fall off again. If we lose this game we’ve lost the Quidditch Cup!”

“All right then....” said Lupin. “You might want to select another memory, a happy memory, I mean, to concentrate on....That one doesn’t seem to have been strong enough....”

Harry thought hard and decided his feelings when Slytherin had won the House Championship last year had definitely qualified as very happy. He gripped his wand tightly again and took up his position in the middle of the classroom.

“Ready?” said Lupin, gripping the box lid.

“Ready,” said Harry, trying hard to fill his head with happy thoughts about Slytherin winning, and not dark thoughts about what was going to happen when the box opened.

“Go!” said Lupin, pulling off the lid. The room went icily cold and dark once more. The dementor glided forward, drawing its breath; one rotting hand was extending toward Harry—

 _“Expecto patronum!”_ Harry yelled. _“Expecto patronum! Expecto pat—”_

White fog obscured his senses...big, blurred shapes were moving around him...then came a new voice, a man’s voice, shouting, panicking—

_“Lily, take Harry and go! It’s him! Go! Run! I’ll hold him off—”_

_The sounds of someone stumbling from a room—a door bursting open—a cackle of high-pitched laughter—_

“Harry! Harry...wake up....”

Lupin was tapping Harry hard on the face. This time it was a minute before Harry understood why he was lying on a dusty classroom floor.

“I heard my dad,” Harry mumbled. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard him—he tried to take on You-Know-Who himself, to give my mum time to run for it....”

Harry suddenly realized that there were tears on his face mingling with the sweat. He bent his face as low as possible, wiping them off on his robes, pretending to do up his shoelace, so that Lupin wouldn’t see.

“You heard James?” said Lupin in a strange voice.

“Yeah....” Face dry, Harry looked up. “Why—you didn’t know my dad, did you?”

“I—I did, as a matter of fact,” said Lupin. “We were friends at Hogwarts. Listen, Harry—perhaps we should leave it here for tonight. This charm is ridiculously advanced....I shouldn’t have suggested putting you through this....”

“No!” said Harry. He got up again. “I’ll have one more go! I’m not thinking of happy enough things, that’s what it is....Hang on....”

He racked his brains. A really, really happy memory...one that he could turn into a good, strong Patronus...

Maybe unwrapping the Firebolt? But that wasn’t happy, because he didn’t have it any more....maybe when Cornelius Fudge told him he wasn’t expelled? But no, because he hadn’t been happy at the time, just confused....perhaps when Weasley was attacked by Hermione’s cat? That had been funny, but hardly memorable, and besides he was cross with Hermione right now....

The moment when he’d first found out he was a wizard, and would be leaving the Dursleys for Hogwarts! If that wasn’t a happy memory, he didn’t know what was....Concentrating very hard on how he had felt when he’d realized he’d be leaving Privet Drive, Harry got to his feet and faced the packing case once more.

“Ready?” said Lupin, who looked as though he were doing this against hie better judgment. “Concentrating hard? All right—go!”

He pulled off the lid of the case for the third time, and the dementor rose out of it; the room fell cold and dark—

 _“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”_ Harry bellowed. _“EXPECTO PATRONUM! EXPECTO PATRONUM!”_

The screaming inside Harry’s head had started again—except this time, it sounded as though it were coming from a badly tuned radio—softer and louder and softer again—and he could still see the dementor—it had halted—and then a huge, silver shadow came bursting out of the end of Harry’s wand, to hover between him and the dementor, and though Harry’s legs felt like water, he was still on his feet—though for how much longer, he wasn’t sure—

 _“Riddikulus!”_ roared Lupin, springing forward.

There was a loud crack, and Harry’s cloudy Patronus vanished along with the dementor; he sank into a chair, feeling as exhausted as if he’d just run a mile, and felt his legs shaking. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Professor Lupin forcing the boggart back into the packing case with his wand; it had turned into a silvery orb again.

“Excellent!” Lupin said, striding over to where Harry sat. “Excellent, Harry! That was definitely a start!”

“Can we have another go? Just one more go?”

“Not now,” said Lupin firmly. “You’ve had enough for one night. Here—”

He handed Harry a large bar of Honeydukes’ best chocolate.

“Eat the lot, or Madam Pomfrey will be after my blood. Same time next week?”

“Okay,” said Harry. He took a bite of the chocolate and watched Lupin extinguishing the lamps that had rekindled with the disappearance of the dementor. Harry hadn’t meant to say anything that might upset Lupin and risk ending the lessons, but Lupin’s words about Harry’s father stuck in his head.

“Professor Lupin?” he said. “If you knew my dad, you must’ve known Sirius Black as well.”

Lupin turned very quickly.

“What gives you that idea?” he said sharply.

“Well, I know they were friends at Hogwarts,” Harry said, meeting Lupin’s eyes squarely. “I mean, everyone knows that, right? So if you were friends with my dad, you must have known his best friend, too.”

Lupin hesitated, his eyes searching Harry’s face.

“Yes, I knew him,” he said eventually. “Or I thought I did. You’d better be off, Harry, it’s getting late.”

Harry decided not to press the matter right now, not when he was so tired and only just starting to learn the charm. He left the classroom, walking along the corridor and around a corner, then took a detour behind a suit of armor and sank down on its plinth to finish his chocolate, wishing he hadn’t let Lupin send him off with such an unsatisfactory answer about Sirius Black. Then his thoughts wandered back to his mother and father....

He felt drained and strangely empty, even though he was so full of chocolate. Terrible though it was to hear his parents’ last moments replayed inside his head, those were the only times Harry had heard their voices since he was a very small child. But he’d never be able to produce a proper Patronus if he half wanted to hear his parents again....

“They’re dead,” he told himself sternly. “They’re dead and listening to echoes of them won’t bring them back. You’d better get a grip on yourself if you want that Quidditch Cup.”

He stood up, crammed the last bit of chocolate into his mouth, and headed back to the Slytherin Dungeons. Flint and Draco were waiting for him, the latter doing a poor job of disguising the hunger in his grey eyes. “Well?” said Flint.

“Off to a good start,” Harry replied, trying to project confidence despite the watery feeling in his knees. “Professor Lupin was impressed. He thinks I shouldn’t have too much trouble mastering the charm.”

“Good,” said Flint, “see that you do before our match with Ravenclaw.”

He walked away. Harry pretended not to notice how Draco’s face fell.

“That’s good,” he said bracingly. “Really good news.”

Harry smiled. He was glad he had friends who cared enough to lie to him.

“Now all you need is a broom, huh?”

His good mood evaporated. “Yeah,” Harry said, “I’ve got a week to master a ridiculously complicated charm, and then even if I do, I may not have anything to fly on.”

Draco seemed to be struggling with himself. After a moment he said, “Well, I guess you could always borrow my Nimbus. I mean, if you had to.”

Harry felt his jaw drop. “Really?” he said.

“Well, it would just be for one match, right?” Draco shrugged. “Surely Professor Snape can’t keep your Firebolt for _too_ long, and then you’ll be able to fly that instead. You’ll let me try it out when you get it back, right?”

“Of—of course,” Harry said, stunned. “Of course I will. Any time you want.”

“Well then.” Draco studied his shoes. When he looked up his smile looked like he’d been chewing Bubotuber Pus. “Just try not to let it get attacked by any trees, and I don’t see any problems.”

“Thanks,” Harry said. “I don’t know what to say.”

Draco had gone very pink. “Don’t mention it,” he said. “Did you finish that essay for Flitwick yet? I’ve been putting that one off. I should probably get to work on it.” He cleared his throat. “Right. I’ll just...right.”

Harry nodded, feeling awkward. He knew how much Draco wanted to fly Seeker for the team, but here he was offering to let Harry borrow his broom. He wondered how he’d ever got through life before he had friends. For a minute, conjuring a patronus didn’t seem like such a daunting prospect after all.

Despite the buoying effects of Draco’s offer, Harry’s second dementor lesson did not go as well as his first. He was distracted by thoughts of his Firebolt, still locked-up tight by Professors Snape, Flitwick, and Hooch. The third time Lupin picked him up off the floor, Harry threw his Chocolate Frog across the room and burst out, “I know there’s nothing wrong with it! It’s not fair, nobody asked them to protect me, so isn’t it my business if I want to risk flying on it or not?”

Professor Lupin calmly retrieved the feebly-kicking Frog. “Well, as your head of house, it is of course Professor Snape’s duty to look after your well-being.”

Harry made a face. “As my head of house, he ought to be looking after our Quidditch chances, too!”

Lupin raised a hand to cover his smile.

“I don’t think it’s funny,” Harry muttered. “If we lose another match, I’ll probably be kicked off the team! If I had my Firebolt, I wouldn’t have anything to worry about—and it’s _mine_ , so they’ve no business taking it. I didn’t ask for their help!”

“I’m sorry,” said Lupin, “you just—reminded me very strongly of someone else for a moment.” He cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should call it a night. It’s no good trying to cast a patronus when you have something else on your mind.”

Harry agreed unhappily. He had really wanted to master the spell before his next Quidditch match, but as that was in two days, he knew there was no chance of that. Right now he was more concerned about his broomstick than dementors anyway.

He decided to go see Professor Snape and ask him how the tests were coming. When he reached Snape’s office he found that Marcus Flint had had the same idea. The Slytherin Captain came stomping out the door and paused to glare at Harry. “I wouldn’t bother,”  he said shortly. “Apparently the Cup doesn’t matter to our revered Potions Master. Looks like Malfoy gets his wish after all.”

Harry opened his mouth to argue but Flint cut him off.

“You can’t fly that stupid Shooting Star on the pitch,” he said. “We’ll be a laughing-stock and you wouldn’t have a chance of catching the Snitch before Ravenclaw if they were blindfolded.”

“Draco said he’d lend me his Nimbus!” Harry spoke the words all in a rush.

Flint blinked, probably trying to sort out the garbled syllables. His thick eyebrows raised in surprise. “Really?” he asked.

Harry nodded hard. “Okay then,” said Flint, sounding unconvinced. “Well, if he doesn’t change his mind, I guess that’ll work. Still don’t see what the point is of owning a Firebolt you’re not allowed to fly it...”

Harry agreed fervently.

The night before the Ravenclaw match Harry couldn’t get to sleep. He lay tossing and turning behind his curtains, overcome with frustration by thoughts of his absent Firebolt. “It’s not fair!” he exclaimed.

“Go to sleep, Potter!”

Harry ignored Blaise. “I didn’t ask for their help,” he muttered, feeling mutinous. “If I want to risk flying it, that’s my business.”

Draco yanked his curtains open. “So fly it,” he said.

Harry sat up. “I would if I had it,” he said.

“Then let’s go get it.”

Harry shook his head. “I already tried. I asked Snape three times yesterday, until he told me if I didn’t stop pestering him he’d give me a detention tomorrow afternoon during the match and then it wouldn’t matter whether I had the Firebolt or not.”

“So don’t ask,” said Draco. His eyes glittered.

“What, you mean just take it?” Harry shook his head again. “I don’t see how.”

Draco looked over his shoulder. The other boys were tucked behind their bed-curtains, but Harry was sure that Blaise Zabini, at least, was still listening. Draco dropped his voice to a whisper. “You have an invisibility cloak,” he said. “If we wait until Snape comes to breakfast, then make out like you’re leaving early to prepare for the match, we can sneak into his office and take it. If you head straight to the pitch and don’t let anybody see you until the teams are assembled, they can’t stop you.”

“I’d have to wait until the very last minute to join the team,” Harry whispered back, excited. “Once Hooch blows her whistle, I’ll be in the air and it will be too late for Snape or anybody else to do anything about it.”

Draco nodded. “Of course, that’s only if you _really_ want to risk flying it.”

“You think it was sent by Sirius Black too,” said Harry.

“I do.” Draco sighed. “Anyway, I don’t know anybody _else_ who would have sent it, do you?”

Harry shook his head.

“But if you still want to fly it, well I think that ought to be _your_ decision. Not Professor Snape’s.”

“So you’ll help me take it back?”

“If that’s what you really want...” Draco hesitated. “Yeah. I’ll help.”

“Brilliant,” said Harry.

He found it very hard to go back to sleep after that, but he didn’t mind as much as he had before.

The morning of the match with Ravenclaw dawned cold and, if the sky of the Great Hall was any indication, gloomy. Harry kept looking up nervously at the enchanted ceiling, but not because he was worried about the weather. He was waiting for Snape to come in. Breakfast was almost over and there was still no sign of the Potions Master. Harry sat toying with a piece of toast that he couldn’t bring himself to eat. “Where is he?” he hissed.

Draco shook his head. “No idea,” he replied. He had eaten even less than Harry and his pale face had a greenish tinge around the edges.

Harry scratched at the collar of his jumper. He had his Invisibility Cloak shoved under his shirt, and the extra layer of cloth made the Great Hall uncomfortably warm. He was just thinking about heading to Snape’s office anyway and trying his luck when the Potions Master finally walked in.

He looked tired and the bags under his dark eyes were heavier than Harry had ever seen them. He wondered if whatever illness Professor Lupin had was catching; Snape certainly looked like he had a bad case of whatever it was.

On his way up to the staff table he paused next to Harry, who looked down at his plate so Snape wouldn’t see guilt on his face. He pretended to be very interested in his cold eggs. “Morning, Professor,” Harry muttered.

“You needn’t ask, Potter,” Snape said sharply. “There are a number of tests your Firebolt must still be subjected to before we can determine that it is safe to ride.” He paused, his next words emerging between gritted teeth as if they hurt to speak. “I am sorry, but your safety has to come first.”

“I understand,” Harry lied, not looking up from his plate.

Snape sniffed, glared at all of them—the rest of the Slytherin team were all scowling at him, as were several of Harry’s other housemates; Snape had probably never been so unpopular with the students of his house before—and stalked up to take his seat at the staff table.

Harry waited just long enough for the Potions Master to pour himself a glass of pumpkin juice, then threw down his silverware. “I’m going to go get ready for the match,” he blurted.

“Good idea. Let’s go get my Nimbus for you to borrow,” Draco said loudly. “No, no,” he told Crabbe and Goyle, “you two stay. You can go get seats for the match when you’re done eating. I’ll probably be a little late since I have to help Harry.”

They managed not to run out of the Great Hall but the minute they cleared the doors they took off for the dungeons at a sprint. They paused, both panting, next to a tapestry of a manticore fighting a hippogriff. “You—sure—about this?” Draco asked between gasps.

“Positive,” said Harry.

He pulled the Invisibility Cloak from under his shirt and threw it over both of them. Together they hurried to Snape’s office. Harry tugged at the doorknob which rattled but did not turn. “Locked!” he gasped, dismayed.

“Out of the way,” Draco whispered, shouldering Harry aside. “ _Alohamora_ ,” he said, and the lock snapped open. Harry pushed aside the door and they hurried inside. Draco shut the door carefully behind them as Harry whipped the cloak off. “Right, where is it?” he demanded, as though the room itself might answer him.

The two boys began frantically searching, but it didn’t take long to find the Firebolt: the broomstick lay in the middle of Snape’s desk. Several books were heaped around it and there were scorch marks on the smooth wood of the desk. One of them was still smoking. It looked like Snape had been working on the broom right up until the moment he left for breakfast.

Harry hesitated, suddenly unhappy about betraying Snape’s trust by stealing the Firebolt back—but there was a Quidditch match to win. He steeled himself and grabbed his broomstick. If they won he’d find some way to make it up to Snape—like by earning 150 points for Slytherin, for example.

“Okay,” Harry said, pulling the cloak back over their heads with one hand while he kept the other tightly wrapped around his Firebolt, “let’s go.”

Draco had been staring in undisguised awe and envy at the broomstick, and jerked in surprise. “Right!” he said. They took a moment to lock the Potions Master’s office behind them, then ran back upstairs, the Invisibility Cloak flapping around their ankles.

They slowed down when they reached the Great Hall. Sidling along the far wall so as not to bump into anyone, they joined the crowd streaming out to the Quidditch pitch. Draco broke-off to go with Crabbe and Goyle, muttering, “They better not have forgotten my cloak. Oh—good luck Harry! Not that you need it with that, as long as it doesn’t—well—good luck!”

Harry waved even though Draco couldn’t see him and crept to the changing room. He stuffed the Invisibility Cloak into one of the lockers and joined the rest of the team for Flint’s pre-match lecture. When everyone realized he had the Firebolt, that was quickly aborted so they could all fawn over it. Harry grinned. When he explained that the teachers hadn’t finished with it, but that he had stolen it back, he expected a few protests but no one seemed worried.

Bole clapped him on the back so hard Harry almost fell over. Everyone was so impressed with his courage and cunning in stealing the broomstick that Harry felt obligated to share the credit with Draco and started to tell the whole story, but Flint waved him into silence. “No time for that now,” he said. “It’s good you got it back, but we gotta make sure the teachers don’t panic and stop the match.”

“As long as they don’t realize I’ve got it until after Hooch blows the whistle and we all get into the air, it shouldn’t be a problem,” Harry said carelessly. “I figure I’ll just stay out of sight and join the team at the last minute—er, if that’s okay with you?”

Flint grunted. “That might work,” he said. “Derrick, go out and grab one of our housemates, send them to tell Malfoy to be ready to come on if they tell Potter he can’t play, or if the broom’s jinxed.”

“Er,” said Harry, “that’s not—I mean, Draco was with me when I took the Firebolt, he helped, it was part his idea I mean, so he...well, I guess he already knows?” he ended with a feeble shrug.

“All right,” Flint said, frowning like he wasn’t entirely convinced, “I guess there’s not really time for that anyway...let’s just everyone hope that nobody stops Potter and the broomstick doesn’t kill him.” His beady eyes flicked again to the Firebolt. “Be good to see that in action.”

There was a rousing chorus of agreement.

“Okay,” said Flint, “let’s get out there. Potter, you come out with us, but stand in the back. Derrick, Bole, you stick close to him, stand in front so nobody can see his broom.” The two Beaters nodded and immediately moved to Harry’s side. “If you don’t come out with us,” Flint explained, “it’ll just be easier for everybody to see you when you do, right? We should have a better chance of sneaking your broom onto the field this way.”

Harry nodded and swallowed. “Okay,” he said. He was annoyed to hear his voice squeak.

“All right.” Flint grinned. “Let’s go win the Cup.”

The team cheered and followed him out into the cold gray morning. Harry looked around nervously but there was no sign of any dementors. He hoped they wouldn’t show up today; despite his confident words to Flint, Harry knew he wasn’t ready to fight-off a single dementor, let alone hundreds of them. He swallowed hard and tried to focus on the roar of the crowd and on not tripping over Derrick and Bole, who were sticking to him like burs. Harry kept the Firebolt held carefully in front of him so that the bulk of the two Beaters would block the sight from those in the stands.

The Ravenclaw team, dressed in blue, were already standing in the middle of the field. Their Seeker, Cho Chang, was the only girl on their team. She was shorter than Harry by about a head, and Harry couldn’t help noticing, nervous as he was, that she was extremely pretty. She smiled at Harry as he peeked out at her past Bole’s elbow, and he felt a slight lurch in the region of his stomach that he didn’t think had anything to do with nerves.

“Flint, Davies, shake hands,” Madam Hooch said briskly, and Flint shook hands with the Ravenclaw Captain. From the way Davies winced, Flint had grabbed his fingers harder than was necessary.

“Mount your brooms...on my whistle...three—two—one—”

For once, Harry gave everyone a second’s head-start before he kicked-off into the air. It didn’t matter; the Firebolt moved higher and faster than any other broom. He soared around the stadium and began squinting for the Snitch, listening anxiously for the sounds of outrage that he was sure would be coming as soon as everyone figured out what he was flying.

And he _was_ flying. Harry grinned. He’d known there was nothing wrong with his Firebolt, and here was the proof.

“That’s Montague with the Quaffle—Montague passes to—what—wait—is that a _Firebolt?_ ”

Lee Jordan from Gryffindor was commentating again, and he almost dropped the microphone in his shock when he recognized Harry’s broom. “It is! Hoary Hosts of Hogarth, Potter’s riding a Firebolt!”

The uproar from the stands drowned-out the shouts rising from the watching professors. Harry sniggered. Jordan was still shouting. “A Firebolt! An actual Firebolt! That’s—blimey!” He seemed too surprised even to swear which was a shame, because McGonagall was probably too preoccupied to stop him like she usually did. She, Snape, Flitwick, and Lupin were having a ferocious discussion. Harry couldn’t hear their shouts over the roar of the crowd, but they were waving their arms frantically. Dumbledore sat in the middle of the gesticulating clump of teachers, his blue eyes fixed on Harry.

Harry gulped and looked away. Was Dumbledore going to call a stop to the match? Technically only Madam Hooch could do that. Harry sneaked a glance at the referee. She was clearly uncertain what to do; Derrick and Bole were taking advantage of her distraction to swarm the Ravenclaw Seeker. Cho Chang shrieked and tried to dodge the Bludgers—and Bats—aimed at her head. Harry winced and looked back at Hooch. She was now having a pantomime discussion with the other professors. Pucey scored twice while no one was watching before the Ravenclaw Beaters noticed what was going on and went after him. Looking unhappy, Hooch flew back to the center of the pitch just in time to award Ravenclaw a penalty for Montague’s cobbing. Chambers made the shot which brought the score to 20/10 in favor of Slytherin, although it took Jordan a few minutes of discussion with McGonagall to figure that out.

All in all, it was the most chaotic start to a Quidditch match that Harry had ever witnessed. He was rather pleased with himself for bringing it about.

As things finally settled-down, at least as much as things ever settled in Quidditch, Harry started looking around for the Snitch in earnest—or tried to, anyway. The Firebolt was very distracting. He couldn’t resist testing it to see what it could do. Harry told himself that it was important to know the limitations of his broomstick, but he knew that had very little to do with the sheer joy that sent him soaring in loops around the Slytherin goal hoops and careening up the field at a breakneck pace.

The Firebolt turned with the lightest touch; it seemed to obey his thoughts rather than his grip; it sped across the field at such speed that the stadium turned into a green-and-blue blur; Harry turned so sharply that Cho Chang, who had been trying to keep up with him, almost fell backward off her broom. Harry went into a perfectly controlled dive, brushing the grassy field with his toes before rising thirty, forty, fifty feet into the air again—

Over at the microphone, Jordan had recovered from his shock enough to educate the rest of the crowd about Harry’s new broomstick. “According to _Which Broomstick_ , the Firebolt’s going to be the broom of choice for the national teams at this year’s Wold Championship. Obviously Potter must be hoping that his new broomstick will make up for his natural shortcomings as a Seeker—and it just might. The Firebolt has a built-in auto-brake and—”

“Jordan, would you mind telling us what’s going on in the match?” interrupted Professor McGongall’s voice.

“Right you are, Professor—just giving a bit of background information—the Firebolt, incidentally, has an acceleration of at least double the—”

“Jordan!”

“Okay, okay, Ravenclaw in possession, Chambers heading for—ooh, no, Chambers flying right into a Bludger sent his way by Bole, that has to hurt. A clean hit for once but I’m sure the Slytherin team will make up for that soon—unless of course now that they have a Firebolt on their side, they decide they don’t need to cheat any more. Certainly the increased speed of the—”

“JORDAN!”

Harry rolled his eyes and wondered why Hogwarts thought such a biased commentator was a good idea. He relieved his feelings by taking a fast loop around the Ravenclaw goal; Davies almost fell sideways off his broom trying to keep Harry in sight.

He streaked toward the opposite end of the field, looking for the Snitch in earnest this time. He knew he couldn’t catch it until they were several points up, not if he wanted to make-up for his dementor-induced fainting fit last match, but if he let Chang catch it before him that would be worst of all. He noticed that the Ravenclaw Seeker was tailing him closely. She was undoubtedly a very good flier—she kept cutting across him, forcing him to change direction.

“Put her in your dust, Potter!” Pucey shouted as he darted past on his way to steal the Quaffle from Bradley.

Harry urged the Firebold forward as they rounded the Slytherin goal posts and Cho fell behind. Harry couldn’t resist turning around to grin at her. “Slytherin leads by forty points to twenty, and look at that Firebolt go! Potter’s really putting it through its paces now, see it turn—Chang’s Comet is just no match for it, the Firebolt’s precision-balance is really noticeable in these long—”

“JORDAN! ARE YOU BEING PAID TO ADVERTISE FIREBOLTS? GET ON WITH THE COMMENTARY!”

Harry and the rest of the Slytherins—those not currently struggling for the Quaffle, anyway—snickered. It was always good to see Jordan catch flack for his commentary.

With the point-gap so close Harry decided that the best thing to do was to mark Cho; that way if she saw the Snitch he could block her, and if she didn’t, he could wait and hope his teammates would score more goals before he tried to catch it himself.

The problem with that plan was that Cho was a lot slower than him and Harry was still too excited by his new Firebolt to fly sensibly. It was too easy to mark her, and it wasn’t long before Harry got bored despite her best efforts to make things difficult for him. Harry decided to speed things up a little; the faster Slytherin scored, the sooner he could show what his broomstick could _really_ do by catching the Snitch.

Harry waited for his moment, timed it carefully—then just as Ravenclaw prepared to take a shot on goal, he threw himself into a dive. Harry blasted down in front of the Chaser like a rocket; the Quaffle went flying; the Ravenclaw player barely managed to stay on his broom. Harry pulled up with a grin, pleased with himself. Seekers were not ordinarily supposed to get involved in the action like that, but Harry was on a Firebolt; there was nothing on this field that could touch him. Ravenclaw hardly stood a chance.

That wasn’t going to stop Cho from trying, Harry saw. His heart jumped into his throat at the sight of her bent low over her broomstick, aiming for the ground. She must have seen the Snitch! Harry urged his Firebolt to go faster than he had thought possible, determined to beat her. Wind streamed past his face, making him squint despite the goggles he wore. He couldn’t see the Snitch, just Cho diving for the earth. When she suddenly pulled out of her dive he thought she’d won—but both her hands were still wrapped around the handle of her broom.

It took Harry a minute to realize that she had tricked him. By the time he understood he was so close to the ground that he barely had time left to pull up; his toes brushed the grass and his arms strained with the effort of dragging his broomstick back into the air. If he hadn’t been on a Firebolt, he would have plowed into the dirt hard enough that he’d have needed his friends to bring shovels to dig him out.

Jordan was busy making sure that everyone knew he’d been tricked:

“AND AS YOU CAN SEE, EVEN THE MOST EMBARRASSING OF MISTAKES CAN BE ASSUAGED BY THE FIREBOLT’S PINPOINT HANDLING, BUT IT’S CLEARLY GOING TO TAKE MORE THAN A FANCY BROOMSTICK FOR POTTER TO OUTWIT CHANG! HOW DOES THE GRASS TASTE TODAY, POTTER?”

Harry growled and shot back into the air. Cho was smirking at him. She caught his eye and waved cheerfully. Part of Harry wanted to congratulate her on her excellent feint, but the other part of him was determined to not just beat her to the Snitch, but to find a way to make a fool of her in the process.

“Keep it together, Potter!” Flint shouted as he flashed past on his way to fight Chambers for the Quaffle.

Harry gritted his teeth and resumed scanning the pitch for any sign of the Golden Snitch. He also kept half an eye on Cho. One close call was more than enough and he wasn’t going to be fooled the same way twice. Any time he thought she was getting too far away he used the Firebolt’s superior speed and maneuvering to cut her off. He didn’t want her anywhere near the Snitch, and he certainly didn’t want her to force him into catching it before he was ready. Harry was in no hurry for the match to end. He knew that whether they won or lost he was facing a lecture from Snape at least, maybe Hooch and even Dumbledore as well. He also knew that winning was more important than ever before, in part because a Slytherin victory would put Snape in a better mood and might save him a few weeks of detention.

He listened closely to the score, although he tried to ignore the rest of Jordan’s inane commentary. It wasn’t easy; the Gryffindor boy kept trying to goad the Slytherin players, especially Harry. He comforted himself with the thought that it was probably jealousy that had the Gryffindor boy in such fine form today—jealousy and a desire to see Harry put the Firebolt through its paces.

 _You and me both_ , Harry thought, and indulged himself with a few tricky loops.

Harry spotted the Snitch twice without going anywhere near it, although it was hard to resist the instinctive urge to chase the tiny gold ball. The first time Cho didn’t notice it before it passed out of sight in the commotion of a penalty shot on the Slytherin goal, but the second time Harry almost had to knock her off her broom to keep her from catching it.

“Good one, Potter!”

“You show those eagles who really owns the air!”

“Push a little harder next time—I think you almost had her off!”

Harry grinned at his teammates’ congratulations, luxuriating in the cheers from the far end of the stands as he tried to ignore the way the other three-quarters of the school booed him, but he knew the match wasn’t over.

Slytherin was not outscoring Ravenclaw the way they needed to, and Harry was starting to worry. What if they won the match, but not by enough of a margin to make up for last time? Would Flint still keep him on the team if they lost any good chance of winning the Cup? Now that he had a Firebolt, Harry was obviously even better than Draco than he had been before, but if they weren’t going to win anyway Flint might pull him off the team just to punish him. Surely no one would be mad enough to pass-up the chance to have a Firebolt on their team, though! At least no dementors had shown up today. That was the last thing Harry needed, especially given his failure to summon a proper patronus yet...

Harry was so distracted by his worries that he almost missed seeing Cho suddenly put on a burst of speed. She shot past him and Harry turned to follow her, the Firebolt changing directions so sharply he almost tossed himself off his own broomstick. He bent low over the handle and urged the Firebolt forward. Cho had a lead on him but only by a few seconds; Harry closed the distance fast, but she was almost at the Snitch! He leaned forward as if he could coax his broom into flying faster through sheer force of will.

She glanced over her shoulder looking for him— _big mistake—_ which shaved a second or two off her speed. Harry refused to look at anything else even when he heard the familiar whistle of a Bludger pass within a few inches of his ear. Nothing mattered now but catching the Snitch.

Cho reached out, straining, her fingers closing around the Snitch. Harry had drawn even with her though, and jerked sideways, trying to knock her out of the way. Cho fought him but Harry gritted his teeth and pushed harder; she pushed back; Harry couldn’t get away from her to take advantage of his faster broomstick. He wondered if he could get away with using a bit of elbow, but figured that all eyes—especially those of Madam Hooch—had to be locked on their struggle for the Snitch.

The little fluttering wings seemed to taunt him as the golden ball zipped back and forth in front of them. Cho’s fingers actually brushed it for a moment. Harry braced his feet and lunged forward, practically throwing himself off his broom in one last final effort, and his hand closed around something hard, metallic, and round.

“YES!” he shouted, and pitched forward.

Harry managed to catch the handle before he fell and tried to drag himself back onto his broom with one hand and half a leg, but felt himself slipping. He kept his other hand wrapped tight around the struggling Snitch, refusing to let go even if it meant another fall.

Hands grabbed his shoulder and heaved him back onto the Firebolt. Harry looked up, expecting to see one of his teammates, but it was Cho who had caught him. He gaped at her.

“You all right?” she asked. She had to shout to be heard over the roaring in Harry’s ears; it took him a moment to realize it was his housemates cheering. He nodded. “THANKS!” he shouted. Cho flushed pink and ducked out of the way so the Slytherin team could fly in and congratulate Harry. They descended for the ground in a knot of back-slapping and cheers.

“—ENDS WITH A SCORE OF 210 TO 40, SLYTHERIN’S FAVOR.” Jordan’s voice was thick with disgust.

Harry grinned.

His smile faded as he touched the ground. A group of teachers was walking onto the field, Professor Snape in the lead, his black cloak billowing behind him like raven’s wings. His green scarf did nothing to lighten his dark expression. Harry swallowed hard and moved away from his teammates; he knew what was coming next and they didn’t deserve to be caught in the explosion.

“POTTER! WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU WERE DOING?”

Harry flinched. “Sorry, Professor.”

“DO YOU REALLY THINK AN APOLOGY WILL MAKE EVERYTHING ALL RIGHT?” Snape’s black eyes flashed and Harry would have sworn that a tongue of fire actually slipped out between his teeth. He ducked his head, studying the ground instead of meeting his head of house’s furious gaze.

“No,” Harry muttered, the feeling of victory quickly fading.

“YOU COULD HAVE DIED!”

“I didn’t, though,” he muttered rebelliously. He glanced up in time to see Snape’s eyes bulge. A muscle ticked dangerously at the back of his jaw. Harry looked at the ground again.

“YOUR BEHAVIOR SHOWS A COMPLETE DISREGARD NOT ONLY FOR YOUR TEACHERS BUT FOR YOUR OWN LIFE! THE LAST TIME I SAW SUCH RECKLESSNESS, YOUR FA—”

“Severus.”

Dumbledore’s voice was quiet but as firm as granite. It hit Snape like a lash. The Potions Master swallowed whatever else he was going to say, but he looked like he was strangling on the words.

The headmaster’s cool gaze turned to Harry next, and he suddenly felt like he was two feet tall.

“I am disappointed in you, Harry,” Dumbledore said. “I thought you were more responsible than this. It saddens me to see you place such little weight on your own safety, especially given those who have sacrificed themselves to ensure that you had a life to risk.” He shook his head. “It is fortunate that this time there were no consequences to your behavior, but I would encourage you not to indulge in such habits on a regular basis. One cannot always rely on being lucky. Congratulations on your win.”

With a curt nod the headmaster swept away, beckoning the other teachers with him. Snape gave Harry a last enraged glare before he joined the others. Madam Hooch, grim-faced, held out her hands and Harry sadly handed the Firebolt over.

Despite the cheering crowd and the Snitch clutched tightly in his hand, Harry felt like he’d plowed into the ground at full speed.

The celebration in the dungeon went on all afternoon. Harry’s mood alternated between elation and misery but, since he had made the catch that won the game, he couldn’t get away from the congratulatory crowd to catch his breath. He forced a smile and let others do most of the talking. Fortunately Draco was more than happy to step in and offer a detailed play-by-play analysis of his flying and decisions—most of it accurate. Harry didn’t bother to set the record straight on the things his friend got wrong, although he did think Draco wasn’t being entirely fair to Cho Chang. She wasn’t the incompetent Seeker he made her out to be; she wasn’t as good as Harry and had an inferior broom to boot, but that wasn’t her fault.

Thoughts like that just reminded Harry that _he_ once again didn’t have a Firebolt either, which plunged him back into gloom. When the party finally broke-up so everyone could go to dinner, Harry was relieved. He had forgotten that going to the Great Hall meant facing the rest of the school.

Harry knew that after so many years of Slytherin victories, everyone else was eager to see them lose, but it always struck him as slightly overwhelming to see the other three-quarters of the school united against his house. It was one thing for the Ravenclaw table to glare at the Slytherins as they walked in; they’d just lost a Quidditch match, so of course they weren’t happy. And Gryffindor and Slytherin had, apparently, _never_ gotten along. (Even Hermione, whom Harry had considered a friend, had been unable to resist the urge to sabotage their chances by getting his Firebolt taken away!) But he had hoped for at least a _few_ congratulations from the Hufflepuff table.

Instead they turned their backs on Slytherin and made a big show of talking about their own captain and Seeker and how certain they were he was going to outfly Harry no matter what kind of broomstick he was using as a _crutch_ to overcome his habit of falling off his broom.

Harry glowered. He thought that any team who had lost as savagely to Ravenclaw as Hufflepuff had before the holiday break ought to be a good bit less smug when talking about someone who had just _beaten_ Ravenclaw, but before he could open his mouth to say anything, the new Hufflepuff captain, Cedric Diggory, interrupted his own housemates:

“Now, I’m not saying I don’t appreciate the confidence in our team, and I certainly do believe we can outfly the Slytherins, but if we do win it won’t be because of any dementors. That’s not something that ought to be factored into Quidditch at all and frankly, if I’d been in McLaggen’s place, I wouldn’t feel very good about making a catch under those conditions. It’s not my place to criticize another captain’s decisions either, but if I were in Wood’s position, I’m pretty sure I would have asked for a do-over for the whole match. Dementor interference is not something that anyone could have expected, not a standard part of the game at all, and I certainly don’t think it’s fair to assess Potter’s skills as a Seeker based on his Defense Against the Dark Arts talents!”

Harry thought it was very easy to talk about fair-play and rematches when it wasn’t your team involved, but the rest of the Hufflepuffs seemed to appreciate Diggory’s pretty words. The conversation at the Hufflepuff table changed to a discussion of bad form in Quidditch matches in general, which was at least better than them complaining about the Slytherin team in specific, although Harry still heard his name and his teammates’ mentioned several times. He frowned, feeling a little chagrined. He had been all ready to hate the handsome Hufflepuff Seeker, but that was hard to do after Diggory defended him—even if he’d obviously only done it to make himself look good.

A voice from his own table caught his attention: “Hey Potter, what’s the status of the Firebolt?”

Harry was immediately distracted by the chance to complain about the unfair confiscation of his broomstick— _again_. He did so at length, enjoying the sympathy of his housemates. “And I mean, it’s obvious it’s not jinxed _now_ , isn’t it? I think I’d have noticed that at some point during the match when it tried to kill me or whatever. Taking it back _now_ is just to punish me because I was right and they were wrong and they don’t like it, that’s low.”

“But they’ll surely let you have it back before the next match, right?”

“I don’t think it matters! If they don’t, Potter will just take it back!”

“Did you _really_ steal it from Snape’s office?”

Harry grinned a little guiltily, but Draco was happy to help him explain their mad feat of daring burglary. Neither boy mentioned the Invisibility Cloak, of course; they had all long ago agreed that that was one secret that was worth keeping from the rest of their housemates. Harry hadn’t even told Hermione about his dad’s old cloak, a fact for which he was now glad: she couldn’t tattle about something she didn’t know.

It was impossible to be gloomy when most of your housemates were treating you as some kind of hero, though, and everyone was suitably awed by Harry’s courage in facing the wrath of Snape to retrieve his Firebolt. While the Slytherins appreciated their head of house, they feared him a little too.

“You know, Potter,” Pansy Parkinson said, “I really wasn’t sure about you at first, but if you’re willing to risk angering Snape so we can win the Quidditch Cup, well...I guess you’re a proper Slytherin after all.”

Harry preened until he caught sight of Dumbledore sitting up at the staff table. The headmaster was watching him with a grim look in his bright eyes. Of Snape, there was no sign at all. Harry’s stomach plummeted at thoughts of what punishment the Potions Master might devise for him. He pushed his second helping of treacle away and went to bed early, claiming to be tired from the match.

In his dreams, the cheers of the crowd kept turning into his mother’s screams. Harry slept fitfully and woke long before dawn, the discordant cries still ringing in his ears.

 

January faded imperceptibly into February, with no change in the bitterly cold weather. Harry’s mood was still swinging wildly back and forth. While he was definitely the hero of the hour among his housemates, he didn’t have his Firebolt back, and none of the teachers were pleased with his stunt in stealing it for the match.

Professor McGonagall started class with a lecture on giving magical devices proper respect which Harry had a feeling had not been part of her lesson plan until he’d flown a theoretically-Cursed broomstick. Professor Snape seemed especially upset, despite Harry’s best efforts to be polite and attentive in Potions Class, and he refused to speak to Harry at all. That at least meant he and Draco didn’t get in any trouble for breaking into the Potions Master’s office but Harry would have almost rather had the detention than the cold-shoulder. It was a lot more unpleasant coming from Snape than from the Dursleys.

Only Lupin didn’t seem entirely disappointed in him. While the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor made a good show of acting stern, Harry caught Lupin looking at him several times with an odd, almost proud smile on his face. That silver lining was offset by the fact that Harry’s anti-dementor lessons were not going nearly as well as he had hoped. Several sessions on, he was able to produce an indistinct, silvery shadow every time the boggart-dementor approached him, but his Patronus was too feeble to drive the dementor away. All it did was hover, like a semi-transparent cloud, draining Harry of energy as he fought to keep it there. Harry felt angry with himself, guilty about his secret desire to hear his parents again.

“You’re expecting too much of yourself,” said Professor Lupin sternly in their fourth week of practice. “For a thirteen-year-old wizard, even an indistinct Patronus is a huge achievement. You aren’t passing out anymore, are you?”

“I thought a Patronus would—charge the dementors down or something,” said Harry dispiritedly. “Make them disappear—”

“The true Patronus does do that,” said Lupin. “But you’ve achieved a great deal in a very short space of time. The dementors didn’t show up at your last Quidditch match, but even if they do come again—or you encounter them anywhere else—you will be able to keep them at bay long enough to get back to the ground, or long enough for a fully-trained witch or wizard to take-over the fight.”

“You said it’s harder if there are loads of them,” said Harry.

“I have complete confidence in you,” said Lupin, smiling. “Here—you’ve earned a drink—something from the Three Broomsticks. You won’t have tried it before—”

He pulled two bottles out of his briefcase.

“Butterbeer!” said Harry, without thinking. He tried to cover his lapse, saying quickly, “Draco told me about that stuff, it sounds delicious.”

Lupin smiled. “Well, it is,” he said, “but here—find out for yourself.”

They drank the butterbeer in silence, until Harry voiced something he’d been wondering about for a while.

“What’s under a dementor’s hood?”

Professor Lupin lowered his bottle thoughtfully.

“Hmmm...well, the only people who really know are in no condition to tell us. You see, the dementor lowers its hood only to use its last and worst weapon.”

“What’s that?”

“They call it the Dementor’s Kiss,” said Lupin, with a slightly twisted smile. “It’s what dementors do to those they wish to destroy utterly. I suppose there must be some kind of mouth under there, because they clamp their jaws upon the mouth of the victim and—and suck out his soul.”

Harry accidentally spat out a bit of butterbeer.

“What—they kill—?”

“Oh no,” said Lupin. “Much worse than that. You can exist without your soul, you know, as long as your brain and heart are still working. But you’ll have no sense of self anymore, no memory, no...anything. There’s no chance at all of recovery. You’ll just—exist. As an empty shell. And your soul is gone forever...lost.”

Lupin drank a little more butterbeer, then said, “It’s the fate that awaits Sirius Black. It was in the _Daily Prophet_ this morning. The Ministry have given the dementors permission to perform it if they find him.”

Harry sat stunned for a moment at the idea of someone having their soul sucked out through their mouth. But then he thought of Black.

“He deserves it,” he said suddenly.

“You think so?” said Lupin lightly. “Do you really think anyone deserves that?”

“Yes,” said Harry defiantly. “For...for some things...”

“I see.” Harry thought Lupin looked disappointed for a moment, but the expression quickly passed. They sat in silence a little longer. Lupin seemed to be struggling with something. Eventually he said, “I know it’s not my place to say anything, Harry, but—well, there are those who don’t much care for the Ministry’s use of dementors. It’s not something I would cover with a third year class, but my N.E.W.T. students have been discussing the various uses of magical creatures in defensive—and non-defensive—practices and, well...it might be something you’d consider giving a bit of thought to as well, since you’re working on the Patronus Charm and all.”

“I’m not saying it sounds nice,” Harry explained, “or like something that should be used a lot, but—but in special cases, yeah, I think there are some people who deserve it.”

Lupin looked out the window casually, as if what he was saying didn’t really matter. “You know, your father always opposed the use of dementors. I remember him getting into a rather heated argument once about that.”

“Well, he was friends with Sirius Black, so obviously my dad had bad taste,” Harry said shortly. “Thanks for the butterbeer, professor.”

He would have liked to have told Lupin about the conversation he’d overheard about Black in the Three Broomsticks, about Black betraying his mother and father, but it would have involved revealing that he’d gone to Hogsmeade without permission and he didn’t want Lupin to figure out how Harry had managed it and stop him going again. So he swallowed the last of his butterbeer and left the History of Magic classroom, a bitter taste in his mouth.

Harry half-wished that he hadn’t asked what was under a dementor’s hood, the answer was so horrible, but he comforted himself by imagining Black getting his soul sucked out. Harry wondered if he’d stop hearing his parents’ deaths every time he got near a dementor once the man responsible for their murder was finally punished. He was so lost in those grim but pleasant thoughts that he almost walked right into Professor Snape halfway down the stairs.

“Pay attention, Potter!”

“I’m sorry, Professor—” Harry noticed what was in Snape’s hands and his voice died. He looked up at the Potions Master, hope shining in his green eyes.

Snape’s lips thinned but he held out the Firebolt. It looked as magnificent as ever. “I do not want you taking this down to the broomshed at this hour, Potter. You will take it directly back to your common room—which I was surprised not to find you in, to begin with.”

“I—I was having lessons with Professor Lupin,” Harry explained absently, drinking in the sight of his broomstick. “I can really have it back?”

“As it has been subjected to every anti-jinx, curse-detection, and other analysis spell that any of us can think of, as well as a distinctly unorthodox test of your own...you may.” Snape looked like the words were being pulled out of his mouth by force.

Harry grimaced. “I really am sorry about that, professor,” he said, and meant it—mostly. “I know it was reckless, I just didn’t know what else to do. We had to beat Ravenclaw, and if it wasn’t me who did it Flint was going to kick me off the team after that thing with the dementors, I just knew it, and...” He trailed off, unable or unwilling to find the words to explain to Professor Snape how it felt to be a Muggle-raised half-blood in Slytherin House: to never get the jokes or understand the games, to always have to have everything explained, to really only have one thing that you could do better than anyone else and to be best friends with the person who would take your place at that if you screwed up... Harry met Snape’s eyes with an apologetic shrug, wishing there was a way to make his Head of House understand that he hadn’t done it for glory or thrills.

Snape’s glare didn’t exactly soften, but he did hand the broom over. “Well, see that such idiotic behavior does not become a habit,” he snapped, and swept away up the stairs before Harry could reply.

It was probably just as well because Harry was too overwhelmed by the feel of his Firebolt in his hands again to think of anything to say.

He jogged back to the Slytherin Dungeon, the smile on his face spread from ear to ear. As he crossed in front of the main entrance he caught sight of a large ginger cat dashing past, something that looked a lot like somebody’s homework in its jaws. Harry grinned, wondering if the paper belonged to Weasley, then frowned as he remembered he was still cross with Hermione for trying to sabotage the Slytherin Quidditch team.

Well, she hadn’t actually done any harm in the end, and it was possible that she really had only been trying to help keep him safe (against his wishes) and if Harry was going to get mad at Hermione Granger for being a bossy know-it-all, he probably shouldn’t have made friends with her in the first place. Besides, she'd said she wasn’t much of a Quidditch fan, hadn't she?

Harry crossed to the front door and opened it a crack for her cat. Crookshanks meowed a muffled thanks and vanished into the night. Harry would find Hermione some time tomorrow and tell her he’d forgiven her for meddling with his broomstick.

That decided, he hurried on to his common room. He waited impatiently for the secret door to grind open and stepped through, bearing his Firebolt before him like a trophy. There was a sudden, excited murmur as every head turned and the next moment, Harry was surrounded by people exclaiming over his broomstick.

“It’s even more magnificent up close.”

“Look at the tail!”

“You sure Snape didn’t jinx it in revenge?”

“Is it as much of a dream to ride as it looked in the match?”

“You seriously don’t know who gave it to you?”

“Whoever they are, ask them if they want a husband!”

“Hell, ask them if they want a personal slave! Just look at that _broom!”_

“Can I have a ride, Potter? I’ll do your homework for a week.”

“I’ll do it for a month!”

After ten minutes or so, during which the Firebolt was passed around and admired from every angle, the crowd dispersed, leaving Harry and his friends alone with the broomstick.

“I still get a ride on it, right?” Draco demanded. “Tomorrow?”

“You can all have a go on it,” Harry said magnanimously.

Crabbe looked as happy as if somebody had told him his next Transfiguration assignment was to turn candy into belches. Goyle’s jaw hung open in disbelief until he managed to shut it enough to say, “Wow! Thanks!” which seemed to exhaust his entire store of words for the evening, as he spent the rest of the night grinning cheerfully at everyone without speaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a little [doodle](http://tathrin.deviantart.com/art/The-Sportsmanship-of-Eagles-641098631) for this chapter:  
> 


	13. Fights and Fireworks

It was almost disappointing to walk down to the Quidditch pitch for the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match on Saturday. While Harry ordinarily liked watching Quidditch almost as much as he liked playing it, having the Firebolt back in his possession made his fingers itch with the urge to take it up into the air, but between Wood and Diggory the pitch had been booked solid and he hadn’t had a chance to fly on his broom once since it had been returned to him.

Harry, of course, was rooting for Hufflepuff to win just like the rest of the Slytherins. Not only was their rivalry with Gryffindor stronger than with any other house, they needed Gryffindor to lose the rest of their matches to make up for what had happened in the first one.

That wasn’t going to stop Harry from pretending to wish the Gryffindors luck if he spotted Hermione. He hadn’t had a chance to talk to her yet and tell her she was forgiven and that seemed like the perfect opening to such a conversation. There was no sign of her bushy mane anywhere in the Gryffindor supporters section though, so Harry settled in to watch the match with his friends.

It was a clear, cool day with a very light breeze. It was perfect spectating weather; there would be no problems seeing what was happening on the pitch. Before he sat down Harry checked to make sure his wand was safe in his pocket. He didn’t expect the dementors to come to this match since they hadn’t been at the last one, and he was on the ground instead of on his broomstick so he would only be embarrassed if he fainted, not hurt, but he still felt better when he caught sight of Professor Lupin sitting with some of the other teachers.

Harry joined in the cheering—and the booing—when the two teams walked out onto the pitch. He watched the captains walk over and shake hands, noticing that Diggory was even taller than Wood but not as broad around the shoulders. McLaggen had the same kind of build as his captain. It was strange to have a match with one Seeker who was big and broad-shouldered, let alone two. Harry was interested to see how that would affect the match’s dynamics.

He hoped Diggory ended up making a fool out of MacLaggen.

The match was furious and brutal. Harry winced in sympathy every time a Bludger connected with one of the players, usually at the hands of one of the Weasleys. Harry wondered what kind of pep-talk Wood had given his team to make them play so ferociously.

The Gryffindors maintained a solid lead throughout the match, their Chasers flashing around the field like long-haired red blurs, but Diggory got to the Snitch while McLaggen was arguing with Wood at the other end of the field. That won the game for Hufflepuff by a margin of only thirty points, but Harry thought they should have earned another fifty just for the look of outrage on MacLaggen’s face when he finally realized what was going on.

Harry grinned smugly. Lee Jordan was going to be hoarse for days.

Draco was already thinking ahead. “They didn’t win by much, but it might be enough if we can beat Hufflepuff by a large margin. And if Gryffindor loses to Ravenclaw too, but only by a little—”

Harry nodded. They still had a chance at the Quidditch Cup—maybe even a _good_ chance. He hadn’t ruined everything.

As if to put the cap on Harry’s elation, as they trooped off the pitch he passed by the Gryffindor goal posts where a red-faced Oliver Wood was screaming at McLaggen that he was off the team for good and they would be having try-outs for a new Seeker on Sunday.

Harry and his friends exchanged grins and Harry almost wished the dementors would show up. He had a feeling that right now, he could have produced the best patronus anyone had ever seen.

 

Harry was awakened far too early the next morning by a girl’s shriek. His uncommonly pleasant dream—winning the Quidditch Cup single-handedly—evaporated and he rolled out of bed in a tangle of blankets. By the time he’d gotten himself unwrapped, crammed his glasses on his nose, and followed his roommates upstairs to the common room, most of the house had assembled. Some were pulling on dressing gowns and others clutched drawn wands. Harry had left his on his nightstand and wondered if he should go back to get it, but one word stopped him:

“Black!” The source of the scream was revealed to be Astoria Greengrass, Daphne’s little sister, who was standing in the middle of the common room. Hey eyes were wide as saucers and her dark curls quivered like jelly as the first year girl announced shrilly, “Sirius Black, in the castle again!”

“Calm down, ‘Stori!” Daphne glared at her sister and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “He’s not here!”

“But they say he killed a boy! With a knife!”

A buzz of interest passed nervously through the crowd. Harry swallowed and avoided looking at Draco.

“What’s all this, now! Everybody take it easy!” Heads turned towards the commanding voice and Harry saw Adelaide Essex, one of their prefects, pushing her way into the room. She was one of the only students dressed and from the look of her sloppy braid she’d gotten that way in a hurry. “Nobody’s dead, all right?” She planted her hands on her hips and glared around the room at her shivering housemates. Her eyes flashed like lightning in her dark face.“Some time last night Sirius Black broke in again, but some Gryffindor saw him and raised the alarm, and it looks like he ran off. The whole school’s been searched and he’s long gone. There’s going to be some more security precautions put in place to make sure it doesn’t happen again—we prefects were just at a meeting about that—and if you’ll all settle down, I’ll tell you what I know, all right?”

As everybody found seats Harry heard her muttering about overly-excitable first years and Gryffindors who couldn’t keep their mouths shut, but Essex was all brisk business again as she explained what had happened while Harry and the rest of his housemates had been sleeping:

“All right, here’s what we know: Some time last night, Sirius Black made his way into the castle again. He seems to have headed straight for Gryffindor Tower, which he managed to enter, apparently by means of a list of their passwords that he’d found somewhere—although I’m not sure I believe that part of the story myself. I can’t imagine anyone keeping a list of their house’s passwords lying about, but I guess if anyone was going to do that it would be a Gryffindor,” she sneered. “Anyway, however he managed it, he got into their dormitories, where one of the students spotted him and raised the alarm. Black fled, the teachers searched the school all night looking for him, and nobody found any sign of either how he entered or how he left. I doubt he’ll be getting in again though, because this place is about to be locked-up tighter than McGonagall’s sense of humor. At any rate, nobody’s dead and he’s gone. So there’s no need for anybody to panic or spread any crazy rumors.” Essex looked around at them all and smirked coolly. “We’ll leave that sort of thing to the Gryffindors, all right?”

It wasn’t until he was pulling his socks on that Harry realized how adroitly Essex had handled the situation, taking what could have been blind panic and diffusing it with confidence and humor. He found himself suddenly filled with a great deal more respect for the school’s prefects. Maybe the job wasn’t just for swots and suck-ups. With Crabbe and Goyle’s stomachs to be filled he didn’t have time to ponder further, but followed his friends quickly up to breakfast.

Throughout the day, everywhere they went they saw signs of tighter security; Professor Flitwick could be seen teaching the front doors to recognize a large picture of Sirius Black; Filch was suddenly bustling up and down the corridors, boarding up everything from tiny cracks in the walls to mouse holes. Harry couldn’t help noticing that the statue of the one-eyed witch on the third floor remained unguarded and unblocked. It seemed that the Weasley twins had been right in thinking that they—and now Harry—were the only ones who knew about the hidden passageway within it.

Harry wondered if he should share the secret. He doubted the Weasleys would; they weren’t the sort to tell teachers any more than they had to, which left it up to him. Harry reasoned that since the outside entrance opened in the basement of Honeydukes it was already secure; the owners would hear anyone breaking-in if they had even half-decent burglary charms, and if they’d been killed everybody would be panicking a great deal more than they were already. Besides, if the one-eyed witch was boarded up too, he would never be able to go into Hogsmeade again.

He told himself that he definitely wasn’t keeping quiet because part of him hoped that Black would break in again so that he, Harry, could face him himself. He knew it wasn’t true, but he did his best to ignore the small voice in his head that said fighting the man who’d betrayed his parents was a good idea.

Harder to ignore was Ron Weasley, but at least he made for a good distraction from Harry’s guilty conscious.

Weasley had been the one to spot Black, and it had made him an instant celebrity. He was enjoying every minute of it too, from what Harry could see. Ron was happy to tell anyone who asked what had happened, with a wealth of detail.

“...I was asleep, and I heard this ripping noise, and I thought it was in my dream, you know? But then there was this draft...I woke up and one side of the hangings on my bed had been pulled down....I rolled over...and I saw him standing over  me...like a skeleton, with loads of filthy hair...holding this great long knife, must’ve been twelve inches...and he looked at me, and I looked at him, and then I yelled, and  he _scampered_.”

“Shame he didn’t take the time for a few jabs with that knife before he went,” Draco muttered. Harry and Crabbe laughed, Goyle joining in a beat behind like usual, but Harry was distracted by wondering _why_ Black hadn’t taken those few jabs. Having got the wrong boy, why had he not silenced Weasley and proceeded on to the rest of the dormitory’s inhabitants one by one until he found the one he was looking for—or rather, _didn’t_ find him? Had he realized that Harry wasn’t there, and decided not to waste any more time in Gryffindor Tower? Black had proved twelve years ago that he didn’t mind murdering innocent people, and this time he had only been facing four unarmed boys, three of whom were asleep.

Of course, if Black was as crazy as people said, there was probably no point in trying to figure out his motivation. Harry tried to put the question out of his mind. The only time he really managed it was when he and his friends went out to the Quidditch pitch to take turns on Harry’s Firebolt. Harry was impressed by how quickly Draco adapted to the pin-point maneuverability of the broomstick, although both Crabbe and Goyle showed themselves competent with it too, at least after Crabbe’s first tumble when he tried to turn too sharply. The sight of him coming up sputtering in confusion while the broom floated off in the opposite direction had left the rest of them in paroxysms of laughter for quite a while. Harry hadn’t worried about Sirius Black once—until they trooped back into the castle for dinner, where he couldn't escape discussion about the murderer.

Despite the efforts of Essex and the other prefects, rumors spread through the school like wildfire. Harry had to laugh at some of the more outrageous ones—like the idea that Sirius Black could turn himself into a flowering shrub and was currently hiding in one of Sprout’s greenhouses—but some of them seemed too plausible to be funny. The sight of a crew of security trolls trooping past with heavy clubs over their shoulders didn’t make Harry feel much better, even when he learned that they had just been hired to guard the entrance to Gryffindor Tower; they reminded him too much of his own frightening encounter with a troll his first year at Hogwarts.

That also reminded him that Hermione was a Gryffindor and so she would probably know most of the real story and, unlike the rest of her housemates, could probably be trusted not to embellish it too badly. Harry decided that interrogating her had to be a priority. It was just as well he’d decided to forgive her for what she’d done to his Firebolt; he’d have had to pretend to anyway to get her cooperation, he was sure.

Unfortunately Hermione proved frustratingly elusive. She seemed to vanish into thin air after every class they shared with the Gryffindors, and while the bulging bag of books she carried was evidence that she had a lot of schoolwork to keep herself busy with, Harry couldn’t understand how anyone could disappear so quickly no matter how many classes she had to get to. He started to wonder if she had learned how to Apparate just to save time between lessons.

Two days after Black’s break-in, even without Hermione’s help Harry and the rest of the school got confirmation of at least one rumor over breakfast. The school owls swooped into the Great Hall carrying the mail as usual, Hedwig with nothing but an affectionate peck for Harry and Bowman with a big package of sweets for Draco. Harry didn’t realize there was anything special in today’s post until he saw Neville Longbottom go sprinting out of the hall, a scarlet envelope held out before him like a bomb. The Slytherins burst into laughter, Pansy shrieking, “Look, Longbottom’s got a Howler!” There was a loud bang from the entrance hall and Neville’s grandmother’s voice, magically magnified to a hundred times its usual volume, made it clear to everyone just how Sirius Black had entered Gryffindor Tower and where his list of passwords had come from.

As everyone laughed Harry spotted a familiar mane of bushy brown hair bent over a book at the end of the Gryffindor table. He took a last swallow of pumpkin juice and jumped to his feet before she disappeared. “I’ll meet you guys in class,” he said, and hurried off before any of his friends could ask where he was going.

Harry slid into a seat next to Hermione and tried not to wonder how big of a breach of protocol it was to sit at another House’s table. “Hey—got a minute?”

Hermione twitched and let out something that was halfway between a squeak and a shriek. “Oh! Harry! You startled me!”

Close up, Harry saw that she looked almost as tired as Lupin. Her hair was even bushier than usual and her red-rimmed eyes were underlined by dark circles. “Sorry,” said Harry. “What are you reading?”

“It’s for Arithmancy, it’s all about how the numerical properties of spells can be quantified by means of elementary additive properties.”

“Sounds fascinating,” Harry said bleakly, glad that he had decided not to take that class.

“It is! But I have another hundred pages to read before class this afternoon, Harry, so while I don’t want to be rude, I haven’t really got time to chat...”

“That’s okay,” Harry said quickly, “I really just wanted to tell you—well, to tell you it’s okay, I’m not mad any more.”

Hermione blinked at him. “Mad?”

“About the Firebolt.”

“Oh!” Her cheeks flushed pink and her eyes suddenly took on a glistening sheen. “Of course! Harry, I’m sorry, I’m just so busy, I wasn’t really thinking—”

“It’s okay,” he interrupted her. “I forgive you.”

“I really wasn’t trying to sabotage your flying!” Hermione went on as if she hadn’t heard him, her voice growing more shrill with every word. “I hardly even understand Quidditch to be honest, I’m not all that much of a fan, I mean it looks interesting but I haven’t had a chance to really read up on it, and it just doesn’t matter that much to me, all right? I was worried, we all know that Sirius Black is trying to get into the castle, and a mysterious broom that costs a fortune turns up out of nowhere and, well, it just seemed a little too good to be true, you know? So of course my first assumption was that it was some trick of Black’s, and I was afraid you were going to get hurt, and—”

“Hermione!” Harry had to shout to cut her off. “I said I forgive you! All right? I’m not mad!”

“Oh.” She deflated all at once like a burst balloon. “Oh. Well. Good, then.”

Harry grinned. “Yeah—it’s fine. Really. I mean, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t ever try to help me like that again, but it’s really okay. If you want you can even sit with us next match, and I’ll explain what’s going on so you’ll understand next time.””

Hermione looked down. “Thank you, Harry,” she said in a small voice. “It’s nice to know that _someone_ in this school isn’t totally unreasonable.”

Harry decided to let that interesting statement go because he was more interested in finding out what she knew about Sirius Black’s latest break-in. “Well listen,” Harry said, “I know you’re busy, and I should head to class soon anyway, but I just wanted to know—Sirius Black. Did he really break into Gryffindor Tower?”

Hermione made a face. “Well, you heard poor Neville’s grandmother, didn’t you?” She shook her head. “He did, and he did it with a list of passwords that Neville had written down. Well, he’s been having trouble remembering the passwords because the new guard we got for our common room, the new portrait I mean, he liked to change them all the time. Thank goodness he’s gone and we have our usual portrait back.” Hermione sighed. “Poor Neville feels just terrible of course, but—”

Harry didn’t care about Longbottom’s guilty conscious. “Did Black really try and stab Weasley?”

Hermione’s face went stiff. She turned slightly away from Harry so that she didn’t have to look at him. Her fingers splayed out across the book in front of her, needlessly smoothing the pages. “Apparently,” she said, her voice oddly high-pitched. “I’m not sure exactly what Ron has been telling everyone happened, but the basic gist of it is that Sirius Black broke in and slashed his bedcurtains with a knife. Ron woke up and screamed when he saw who was there, and Black ran off before anyone could come to help.” She sniffed. “Frankly I’m not entirely convinced that Ron didn’t simply have a nightmare. He’s not exactly what I would call a reliable witness.”

Harry frowned. “Is everything okay?” he asked.

“Perfectly!” Hermione stood up and began stacking books in her schoolbag. It was already straining its seams but she crammed another three textbooks inside before she slung the heavy load over her shoulder. “Everything is wonderful, Harry, but if you’ll excuse me, I really do have to get to class. Good morning.”

Her sudden departure left him blinking in a dazed sort of way. When he realized that he was now sitting at the Gryffindor table without the excuse of having a friend to talk to, Harry jumped up and ran to join his friends in Transfiguration. After Gryffindor’s latest Quidditch defeat, McGonagall was sure to be a in a sour mood, and Harry didn’t want to lose any housepoints.

 

A large group of people were bunched around the bulletin board when Harry and his friends returned to the common room after dinner. At first Harry didn’t think anything of it; the common room had become much more crowded in the evenings thanks to the new security restrictions. Then he heard Daphne walk by scolding her sister: “Of course I’m going to Hogsmeade again, ‘Stori, don’t be ridiculous. If it were dangerous they’d stop the trips, wouldn’t they? Sirius Black isn’t going to do anything in broad daylight in the middle of the village, so stop blubbering at me!”

“Another Hogsmeade trip?” Harry asked, craning his neck to read the new notice.

Crabbe and Goyle were each taller than both Harry and Draco but they were slower readers too, so it was Draco who announced, “No added restrictions, but I’ll wager Filch will be keeping a closer eye on everybody going and coming—and probably not just him, either.” His eyes flickered to Harry and away again quickly. “What are you going to do?” he asked quietly.

Harry thought about it. “I don’t see any reason not to go,” he said slowly. “Black hasn’t even figured out how to find me in Hogwarts, he’s not going to do it in the middle of Hogsmeade—especially if I’m under the Invisibility Cloak the whole time.” He watched Draco carefully as he spoke, trying to see if his friend was going to panic over Black’s latest break-in. He wanted to go to Hogsmeade, but not if it was going to make Draco stop talking to him. “And like Daphne said, it’ll be broad daylight in the middle of a crowded village. Black’s been smart enough to only try and break in here at night when everybody’s asleep, he’s not going to show up in the middle of Hogsmeade! There won’t be any danger.”

Draco nodded, not meeting Harry’s eye. “Right,” he said. “No danger at all.”

 

On Saturday morning, Harry packed both his Invisibility Cloak and his regular one in his bag, slipped the Marauder’s Map into his pocket, and went down to breakfast with everyone else. He and Draco had to loudly remind Crabbe and Goyle several times that Harry “wasn’t going to Hogsmeade,” with much winking and nudges. Crabbe eventually caught-on but Harry wasn’t sure about Goyle. He looked confused in between his bites of sausage and bacon and very sincerely offered to bring Harry back a bag of peppermint toads from Honeydukes.

Figuring that there was no sense trying to explain things to Goyle now when he would figure it out after Harry showed up in Hogsmeade, Harry said nothing. He was careful to let everyone see him trudge sadly down the marble staircase in the entrance hall as everybody else proceeded to the front doors.

The moment he was around the corner he grabbed his Invisibility Cloak and threw it over his head, then hurried up to the third floor. He crouched down beside the one-eyed witch and pulled the Marauder’s Map out of his pocket. A tiny dot was moving in his direction. Harry squinted at it. The minuscule writing next to it read _Neville Longbottom_.

Harry made a face. What was Longbottom doing in the castle rather than at Hogsmeade with the rest of the third years? Had McGonagall restricted him to school grounds because of the lost passwords? Not wanting to risk discovery to find out, Harry scrunched himself down as small as he could and held his breath, waiting for the Gryffindor to pass. To his dismay, Longbottom stopped in the middle of the hallway to stare out the windows.

Under the cloak, Harry cursed silently. How long was Longbottom going to stand there? Didn’t he have homework to do, if he couldn’t go to the village? Then again, maybe not; he was friends with Hermione Granger, which probably meant he didn’t bother to do much revision on his own. Harry knew he wouldn’t have, if he’d been in the same house as Hermione and could ask her help on every assignment.

Longbottom sighed and folded his arms on the windowsill. Harry looked around for something to throw, regretting that he hadn’t borrowed any of Crabbe’s dungbombs. How could he make Longbottom leave without revealing himself?

Salvation came around the corner with long black robes and a sour expression: Professor Snape.

Longbottom squeaked and backed away from the windows. Harry almost forgot himself enough to sigh; hadn’t anyone ever told Longbottom that reacting like that to the sight of a teacher just made you look guilty?

“Longbottom,” Snape said. His eyes flicked to the doorways on either side of the hallway and then, to Harry’s immense disquiet, to the one-eyed witch. “What an odd place to loiter.”

“I wasn’t loitering, professor!” Longbottom protested. “I was just—looking out the windows....”

“Indeed? I am sure the view must be fascinating, but surely it is better from Gryffindor Tower. A higher vantage point, after all.”

“Of course!” Longbottom gasped. “Right! Yes! I was just going there now, sir!”

He turned and bolted, glancing over his shoulder so many times that he almost ran into a suit of armor. Snape didn’t move as he watched the Gryffindor flee.

Harry didn’t dare breathe. He was sure Snape was going to leave now that Longbottom had been sent scurrying on his way, but instead the Potions Master walked briskly to the statue of the one-eyed witch. Harry scuttled away along the wall as silently as he could, fighting panic. What would Snape do if he caught Harry here, under an Invisibility Cloak no less? Even Draco wouldn’t have been able to talk his way out of _that_.

Snape ran his hands over the one-eyed witch’s hump. Harry was glad he hadn’t had time to open it before Longbottom arrived but he wished he had thought to put the map away. He dared not do it now; with Snape standing so close there was no way he wouldn’t hear the rustle of parchment. Harry’s palms were sweating and he hoped it wouldn’t ruin the map. What was Snape looking for? Surely he didn’t know about the secret passageway?

Snape examined the statue for what felt like hours. Finally he stepped back, folded his hands in his pockets, and said, _“Hmm_. _”_ Then he walked away.

Harry waited a good ten minutes before he unpeeled himself from the wall. The first thing he did was check the map: the tiny dot labeled _Severus Snape_ was moving steadily in the direction of the dungeons. Harry breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

He quickly opened the one-eyed witch’s hump, threw his bag down, and slid down after it. He wiped the Marader’s Map blank again, wiped his sweaty forehead, and set off down the tunnel at a run.

 

Harry, completely hidden beneath the Invisibility Cloak, emerged into the sunlight outside Honeydukes and prodded Draco in the back. He yelped. Crabbe and Goyle stopped stuffing their faces with candy long enough to look around. Crabbe cracked his knuckles.

“It’s me!” Harry whispered.

“You scared the daylights out of me!” Draco gasped. “What took you so long?”

“Longbottom was hanging around, and then Snape chased him off but he wanted to look at the statue after...”

They set off up the High Street, Harry being careful to dodge his friends’ swinging arms and feet.

“You think he knows about the secret passage?”

“It would be blocked-up by now if he did, wouldn’t it?”

“Maybe,” Draco said. “I don’t think Snape ever shares everything he knows with anybody though.”

“Not even the headmaster?”

Draco snorted. “Especially not him.”

“Here,” Goyle said suddenly, holding a small paper bag out to his side.

“Is that for me?” Harry asked after a moment; he was standing on the other side of their little group, next to Crabbe.

“Yeah. Said I’d get you some,” Goyle explained as Harry moved over to take the package. It held a few peppermint toads, slightly melted.

“Goyle, that’s...thanks.”

Goyle shuffled his feet. “Didn’t know you were coming ‘til after I bought ‘em.”

“Well put them away now,” Draco scolded. “A bag floating in midair looks a bit odd, even for Hogsmeade.”

Harry hurriedly slipped the candy under his cloak. Despite the chill in the air he felt strangely warm inside, and not because of sprinting most of the way from Hogwarts. Goyle patted the air, probably aiming for Harry’s shoulder; it was a good thing he missed because he would surely have knocked Harry sprawling, but he appreciated the gesture—and the sweets. He was glad that Sirius Black hadn’t scared all his friends away—at least not yet.

They went to the post office; Draco could have used his own owl to send any correspondence he wanted, but he pestered the clerk with a lot of questions about travel time and international postage rates so that Harry could have a good look around. The owls sat hooting softly down at him, at least three hundred of them; from Great Grays right down to tiny little Scops owls (“Local Deliveries Only”), which were so small they could have sat in the palm of Harry’s hand.

Then they visited Zonko’s, which was so packed with students Harry had to stick close to Crabbe and Goyle so he wouldn’t get knocked over. There were jokes and tricks to best even the Weasley twins, or so it seemed; Harry gave Draco whispered orders and tried to pass him some gold from under the cloak but Draco didn’t notice and paid for everything all at once. Harry, who knew how much pocket money Draco got regularly from home, didn’t feel even a little guilty. They left Zonko’s with their pockets bulging with Dungbombs, Hiccup Sweets, Frog Spawn Soap, and Nose-Biting Teacups; Crabbe and Goyle each had a cluster of fireworks too, but Harry figured there was no way they’d be able to set those off without Filch catching them and had restrained himself to less obvious tricks.

The day was fine and breezy and none of them felt like staying indoors (although it took an order from Draco to make Crabbe forgo a butterbeer) so they walked past the Three Broomsticks and climbed a slope to visit the Shrieking Shack, the most haunted dwelling in Britain. It stood a little way above the rest of the village, and even in daylight was slightly creepy, with its boarded windows and dank overgrown garden. Crabbe decided it was a perfect place to test out a firework so the others backed away to watch.

“Bet he burns himself again,” Goyle snickered.

“Reckon we can get inside?” Harry asked, more interested in the Shrieking Shack than in Crabbe’s pyrotechnic experiments. He was feeling fearless, out in Hogsmeade against the rules with no sign of either dementors or Sirius Black anywhere. In fact, the hill around them was so empty that he decided it was safe to take off the cloak for a little and cool down. He folded it carefully and hung it over the rotting wooden fence that encircled the mess of a garden.

Draco shook his head. “No one’s gotten inside so far—at least not that they’ve ever said...”

Harry grinned. He met his friend’s eyes.

Draco hesitated, then grinned as well. “Oh, all right,” he said. “Let’s give it a try.”

They hopped the fence and crept up to the run-down building. Draco tried the window on the right of the door while Harry bent to inspect the front stoop; he doubted anyone would have just left the key under the mat but supposing someone _had_ , he'd feel like an idiot for not looking there first.

“OUCH!”

Harry spun around, pulling his wand from his pocket at Draco’s cry. His heart was pounding. “What is it?”

Draco pulled his finger out of his mouth and looked at Harry sheepishly. “Splinter,” he confessed.

Harry suddenly felt very silly. He had to stifle the urge to giggle. In broad daylight it was hard to think about ghosts at all, let alone be afraid of them. The Shrieking Shack looked like the sort of disreputable, dilapidated place that Uncle Vernon always bemoaned as an eyesore and a hang-out for riff-raff, and that Aunt Petunia was convinced somebody would drag her Duddikins into kicking and screaming only to have him emerge as a drug-guzzling delinquent, but it didn’t look _scary_. More than anything, Harry thought the place looked lonely and sad. It had obviously been abandoned years ago, but was it the building’s fault that whoever had once lived there didn’t care about it any more?

He circled the shack, looking for a way in, but all the windows seemed as well-sealed as the one Draco had tried. From the sounds out front Draco was trying the Unlocking Spell but it didn’t seem to be doing much good. Harry put his wand back in his pocket. Let Draco blithely defy the Ministry’s edicts against underage magic and hope not to get caught; Harry didn’t want to risk it even in an all-magical village. Not only did he not have Lucius Malfoy for a father, but he wasn’t supposed to be in Hogsmeade at all.

“Goyle! Come see if you can get this open!” Draco commanded, rapping his knuckles on the front door.

Harry walked back around front just in time to see Goyle go sprawling as he lost his grip on the doorknob. He landed in the muddy, overgrown lawn. Harry laughed as Goyle struggled back to his feet, filthy and furious, and there might have been a fight except at that moment Crabbe finally got the firework to light.

It soared off into the air with a piercing whistle and a crackle of flame, then exploded far over their heads with a shower of green, pink, and orange sparks circling a sparkler-picture of a rearing unicorn. They all gasped in awe except for Crabbe, who swore and sucked his blistered fingers. Harry laughed, then stopped at the sound of footsteps coming up the hill.

He frantically dashed for the fence and his Invisibility Cloak, cursing himself for taking it off. What if that was Sirius Black—or worse, a teacher? Harry yanked the cloak over his head just in time as around the bend came three of the last people he would have wanted to catch him sneaking out of Hogwarts: Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnigan, and Ron Weasley.

“Whoa! Cool!”

“Brilliant!”

“Look at that horn!”

The three Gryffindor boys were laughing admiringly at the firework but they stopped when they saw who had set it. “Oh look,” said Finnigan, “something even uglier than the shack.”

“What’s up, Weasley,” Draco retorted, “going house shopping and thought you’d bring your mates for some second opinions?”

Weasley’s face went red. “Excuse me?” he cried.

“Way I hear it, your whole family sleeps in one room, right? This place must look like a palace to you. Looking forward to moving in?”

“Nah,” Finnigan said while Weasley sputtered, “there’d never be any piece and quiet, what with you stopping by for a family reunion with the spooks every other night.”

“Say what you like about my family tree,” Draco retorted, his ears pink, “but at least I _have_ one—that’s more than some of _you_ lot can say....”

“You having a go at my mum?” Finnigan snapped, raising his fists.

“I think he’s having a go at mine actually,” Thomas said, quite calm. “Which is a bit silly I think, considering I’ve got more family than he does. Three little sisters at home, Malfoy; guess that means that _my_ mum actually _liked_ me enough to want more kids, huh?”

“Maybe some people just get it right the first time,” Draco sneered. Crabbe and Goyle—both only children as well—scowled and nodded from their posts on either side of him. “Not like those poor parents who just keep popping out kids, hoping desperately that _eventually_ they’ll get it right...real bad luck for your folks, huh Weasley?” he added with false sympathy. “Maybe next time—”

“That tears it!” Weasley shouted and charged right at Draco, tackling him backward into the mud and pummeling every inch of him he could reach. Draco shrieked and threw his arms over his head but the idea that anybody would take on Crabbe and Goyle single-handedly was so insane that for a solid minute, nobody else moved. By the time Crabbe and Goyle shook off their stupor enough to peel Weasley off Draco he had gotten in several solid blows. Draco uncurled and pointed a shaking finger at Weasley but before he could tell Crabbe and Goyle what revenge he wanted, Finnigan and Thomas had run to their friend’s defense and the six boys turned into one angry ball of fists and feet.

Harry hesitated. He wanted to help, but there was no way he could keep the cloak on in a fight. He looked around, trying to come up with a better idea. His gaze landed on Crabbe’s abandoned fireworks and he grinned. Scooping them up, Harry ran for the Shrieking Shack.

He raced around back and dumped the fireworks on the ground. Throwing the cloak off so he could work more quickly, he tied all the fuses together into one knot and planted the ends of the rockets in the muddy ground. Forgetting about his fears of the Ministry, Harry drew his wand. “Incendio!” he whispered, then grabbed the Invisibility Cloak and ran for it, racing back out front.

Crabbe had Weasley in a headlock but the wild blows the red-haired boy was raining on his head seemed to have him too stupefied to do anything else. Goyle, his nose bleeding, was sitting on Thomas. The Gryffindor’s efforts to keep his own nose out of the mud so he could breathe looked to be taking all of his attention. Finnigan and Draco had found a particularly muddy patch of ground and were skating as much as fighting. As Harry came around the corner Finnigan took Draco down about the knees. He was trying to pull Draco’s arms out of the way so he could resume punching him when the fireworks all went off at once.

Everybody stopped to look. The noise sounded like a dragon’s roar and the explosion of sparkles didn’t look much better. Tangled together as they had been, the fireworks didn’t make the pretty pictures that the first one had, but rather burst in a riot of colors and fragmented shapes. It looked like something out of a nightmare even to Harry, and he knew what it was.

The others screamed. “IT’S THE GHOSTS!” Goyle bellowed. He lurched to his feet and pelted down the road without a second glance. Crabbe dropped Weasley and followed, outdistancing Goyle halfway down the hill. The Gryffindors struggled to their feet and lurched off in a muddy, stumbling group.

Draco sat up and looked around nervously. “Harry?” he asked hopefully.

“It’s me,” Harry said, and pulled the cloak down to expose his head.

Draco breathed a sigh of relief. “What did you do?” he asked.

Harry shrugged. “Let’s just say that Crabbe is going to need to get some more fireworks....”

Draco laughed and winced. Harry squelched over to him and helped haul his friend out of the puddle. Draco looked terrible: covered in mud, both eyes starting to swell, blood trickling from a split lip.... Harry, remembering Lucius Malfoy’s reaction to their bruises from the Chamber of Secrets last year, was suddenly glad that neither of Draco’s parents were anywhere near Hogsmeade today.

“You should go see Madam Pomfrey,” Harry said.

“Oh do you think?” Draco retorted.

Harry shook his head. “I don’t know why you always have to push people’s buttons like that. See what happens?”

Draco’s haughty sniff was ruined when he yelped and rubbed his nose. “It’s funny,” he muttered. “Not my fault Weasley’ a total barbarian.”

“You baited him,” Harry said.

“Nobody said he had to take the bait,” Draco snapped. “Only an idiot would have.”

“Right,” Harry agreed, “but it’s _Weasley_.”

Draco’s laugh ended as abruptly as his sniff but he managed a small smile. “True,” he agreed. “Well whatever, he’s going to regret it. Wait until my father hears about this....”

“Forget about your dad,” Harry suggested, “just tell Snape. He’ll have Weasley cleaning cauldrons for a month. And probably Finnigan and Thomas, too.”

“Hmm.” Draco looked down at his muddy robes. “That seems the least they could do,” he drawled. “Not that I’m sure I’d trust a cauldron cleaned by any of them to be properly tended.”

“I’d trust it if Snape was breathing down their necks while they scrubbed,” Harry said.

Draco laughed and winced again. “Well I’m going to see Madame Pomfrey,” he said peevishly and rubbed his nose again. “This _hurts_.”

“Sorry,” Harry said automatically, even though he hadn’t been the one to goad the Gryffindors into a fight. “Want me to find Crabbe and Goyle so they can walk you back?”

 “I will be perfectly fine on my own.” Draco’s voice was chilly. “If they’re going to run off at the merest hint of a supernatural ruse they’re not much good to have around anyway.”

Harry diplomatically didn’t point-out that Draco hadn’t been sure the fireworks weren’t something the ghosts had done until Harry had taken credit either, and that the reason he hadn’t run away too had probably had more to do with the fact that he’d been elbow-deep in mud than in his ability to see through the stunt.

“Well, if I run into them I’ll explain they’re not being haunted, at least,” Harry offered.

Draco waved a hand dismissively and squelched away down the hill. He had his nose in the air but for once it did little to add to his dignity. Harry suspected that even Draco’s dad would have looked ridiculous covered in that much mud, but he was careful not to laugh. Instead he put his hood back up and returned to Hogsmeade.

Harry idled around for a little, but he soon realized that Hogsmeade wasn’t much fun without friends—at least not if you were invisible. He spent ten minutes trying to figure out how to get a Butterbeer from the Three Broomsticks without taking his cloak off but eventually he gave up and went for a walk instead.

He saw Hermione coming out of Scrivenshaft’s with a bulky parcel but decided it was a bad idea to try talking to her when he was breaking the rules. He didn’t want a repeat of the Firebolt incident with his Invisibility Cloak. Harry gave her a wide berth and spent a while poking around the smaller shops, but not being able to buy anything soon soured that activity, too.

He gave up and returned to the school. Maybe Snape would be done yelling at the Gryffindors by now and he could find out what their punishment was going to be. With that thought to brighten his steps, the long walk up the dark tunnel went by swiftly.

Harry checked the Marauder’s Map three times to make sure there was nobody in the hallway outside before he opened the witch’s hump and climbed out. He folded the Invisibility Cloak back up in his bag and, whistling cheerfully, ambled down to the dungeons to find his friends.

He found Snape waiting for him.

The Slytherin Head of House sat stiffly in one of the common room’s high-backed chairs, his face expressionless. Harry’s friends were crammed on the couch beside him, Draco sitting meekly between Crabbe and Goyle, who looked sullen and confused. All three of them looked the worse-for-wear, but their bruises were faded and bloody cuts had been replaced by new, pink skin, so they must have seen Madam Pomfrey already.

Everyone else in the common room was sitting very far away and trying to pretend they couldn’t see Snape. While the Slytherins appreciated their Head of House, none of them would cross him lightly, and his presence in their common room made everyone uncomfortable.

Harry stumbled on the threshold from shock but he had just enough presence of mind to quickly drop his school bag. He kicked it sideways out of the Potions Master’s sight and hoped that the sound of the stone sliding shut behind him was loud enough to hide the _thump_.

“Uh—afternoon, professor,” Harry said. He tried to smile like his heart wasn’t pounding a hundred miles a minute.

“Potter,” Snape said. “I have just heard a very interesting story about some ghosts who stopped a fight between your friends and some Gryffindor students. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“Me, sir?” Harry said. “I’ve been in Hogwarts all day. I haven’t seen anyone since everybody left this morning. I don’t know anything that happened in Hogsmeade. What’s the story?” He shut-up before he overdid it.

From the grimace on Draco’s face it was too late. Indeed, Snape raised an eyebrow and said coolly, “I did not say this incident took play in Hogsmeade.”

Harry swore silently and tried to play it cool. “Well, didn’t it? That’s where they were all day, right?” He decided to go for sympathy; he’d seen the tactic work for Draco before. “That’s where _everybody_ was today, except for me.”

Snape’s expression didn’t soften. “Were you not?” he asked.

Harry widened his eyes. “Sir, I didn’t get my permission slip back from the Muggles, remember? I asked you about it before Hallowe’en, to see if you’d give me permission instead—remember?”

“I do,” said Snape. His black eyes seemed to bore straight through Harry. His eyes felt like watering but he tried not to blink; he’d heard that blinking too much made somebody look like they were lying. He tried to smile ingratiatingly, then realized he should probably look sad and sulky over being confined to the school, or maybe curious about the fight and the ghosts since he wasn’t supposed to know about that yet....

Before Harry could settle on the most convincing expression to twist his face into, Snape stood up with a loud “Hmph.” There was a great rustle of paper and explosion of chatter as the Slytherin students quickly pretended to be doing something other than eavesdropping. Snape’s dark eyes flashed around the common room, raked the three shrinking boys sandwiched on the couch, and settled back on Harry.

“I hope you understand that your safety is of paramount concern,” he said. “I would hate to learn that you had somehow found a way to elude the security measures we have placed over this school, and were being reckless again.”

“Of course not, professor,” Harry said, “I’m not doing anything unsafe. Promise.” Technically he hadn’t been in any danger, Harry reasoned, in Hogsmeade surrounded by people and with an Invisibility Cloak over his head, so it wasn’t really a lie.

Snape “ _hmm_ ed,” sounding unconvinced, and with a curt nod at the others swept out of the room. Harry held his breath until the stone wall had sealed itself again, then darted over to retrieve his school bag. He collapsed with a heavy sigh in the chair Snape had vacated.

“I swear we didn’t mention you,” Draco assured him right away. “I don’t know what made Snape suspicious, but it wasn’t us.”

“I believe you,” Harry said. “I sometimes think Snape must be able to smell it when people have secrets.”

“Well anyway,” Draco said, eager to tell the story now that he knew he wasn’t going to be blamed for anything, “we went up to the Hospital Wing when we got back—”

“Greg and I were already there,” Crabbe interrupted. He hunched his shoulders like a turtle when Draco shushed him.

“Yes,” Draco said, “they were there already, of course, having run-off like scared little pixies the moment the fireworks went off.” Both Crabbe and Goyle shifted unhappily. Harry would never have dreamed of saying something like that about his two bulky friends, but they all knew that Draco could get away with anything. “The Gryffindors were too, they’d burst in just a few minutes after Crabbe and Goyle, and by the time I got there everybody was just about screaming to be heard over each other. Madam Pomfrey sent us all away to our common rooms and brought her bruise balm and things to us here. Snape showed-up just as she was leaving and we told him what had happened, but when we got to the part about the ghosts and the fireworks he...well....”

“He got real strange,” Goyle said. “He went kinda...still.”

“Like all them pet’ified people last year,” Crabbe added.

“Yeah, only his lips was all thin and his cheeks were red,” said Goyle.

“Yeah,” agreed Crabbe. “Like that.”

“Well,” Draco took over the story again, “he said that he would just wait for _you_ to join us. I tried to explain that you hadn’t been there, obviously, and there wasn’t any reason for you to be coming to meet us because you couldn’t know we’d come back so early—but he didn’t listen. Refused to explain, said he’d just as soon wait. So we waited.” Draco made a face. “I tried to get him to tell me what his plans for punishing the Gryffindors were, but he wouldn’t even talk about that.”

“Sorry,” said Harry. “I’m sure it’ll be excellent, though. Snape gives good punishments.”

That brightened all three of them up. “True,” Draco agreed. “Well, I bet we’ll hear them all complaining about it at supper, anyway. So—what all did you do after we left?”

Harry shrugged. “Nothing,” he said. “Just walked around a little.”

“I know what _I’d_ do if I was in Hogsmeade and nobody could see me,” Crabbe said.

“Even _you_ couldn’t eat that much candy,” Draco retorted.

“Bet I could,” Crabbe muttered. Goyle nodded and Harry laughed.


	14. Slytherin vs Hufflepuff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the original version of _Prisoner of Azkaban_ , the final Quidditch match of the season is the Gryffindor-Slytherin match that takes place on the first Saturday after the Easter holidays. Ordinarily, that slot should be taken by the Hufflepuff-Slytherin match, with the last match of the year (Gryffindor-Ravenclaw) not happening until late May or early June right around final exams. Ostensibly the only changes between the regular Quidditch season and that which was played in PoA should be in the order of games, with Hufflepuff replacing Slytherin in the opening match of the season and then Slytherin taking Ravenclaw’s place in the last match (both against Gryffindor), but I have chosen to assume that more shuffling must have happened in order to have the final match of the season take place so much earlier than it usually does. Thus what was the final match of the season in the original book is now the penultimate match, with the final match taking place later, closer to when it usually does. (And of course, with all the teams back to playing in their usual order.) I apologize for any confusion regarding this alteration.

The mild February melted into a balmy March. If it hadn’t been for his anti-dementor lessons with Lupin and the constant predictions of doom from Professor Trelawney, Harry could almost have forgotten about lurking Grims and murderous Dark Wizards. He had a hard time concentrating on his schoolwork in the face of such good weather, and he wasn’t the only one. The only class he never got distracted in was Potions; down in the dungeons it didn’t matter what the weather was outside. History of Magic was the hardest lesson to pay attention in and by the end of the month Theodore Nott, the only Slytherin who didn’t seem to find Professor Binns soporific, had a thriving side-business going selling copies of his notes to his sleepy housemates.

Harry’s lackadaisical spring came to a sudden end at their next Quidditch practice. He and Draco walked down to the pitch together after supper, leaving Crabbe and Goyle to struggle alone with their homework for a while. They were laughing about Goyle’s attempt to fit a whole pumpkin pastie in his mouth without chewing and hardly noticed the silent presence of Madam Hooch sitting in the bleachers.

Two of their teammates were there ahead of them: Marcus Flint, the captain, and Adrian Pucey. Pucey, a wiry fifth year who flew Chaser for Slytherin, usually kept his long dreadlocks tied back when he flew so they wouldn’t get in his face, but today his hair was loose and he wasn’t even carrying his broom. Harry would have known something was wrong even without seeing the angry scowls on Flint and Pucey’s faces. They were standing nose-to-nose in heated conversation and Harry, having no desire to eavesdrop on their argument, slowed down to wait at the bleachers. Draco grabbed his wrist and dragged him near enough to hear.

“Listen,” Pucey was saying, “you’re not going to change my mind. I just don’t have time for Quidditch right now, I have to study for my O.W.L.s.”

“You’ve been studying for those all year!” Flint’s face was red.

“Yeah, and now it’s almost time to take the tests, and I need to focus, all right?”

“Plenty of people manage to focus on both!” Flint snapped.

“And plenty of people’s marks suffer because they’re juggling too much,” Pucey retorted. “I’m not interested in being one of them. Quidditch is fun but we’ve all got to think about the future too.”

“And what are we supposed to do? We play Hufflepuff in just a little over a month!”

“Find another Chaser,” Pucey said coldly. “Isn’t that the point of having reserve players?”

“The point of reserves is that they’re not good enough to be on the team, but are better than nothing in a pinch.”

Harry stiffened. Draco drew in a sharp breath. A glance at his friend showed that his pale face had gone dead white, with two spots of bright pink outrage blooming in his cheeks. Harry looked away quickly and tried desperately to think of something to say to change the subject.

“So, uh, do you think Trelawney—”

“Shh!”

Harry shut-up and tried to pretend he couldn’t hear the rest of the argument. He wandered around the back of the bleachers, doing his best to ignore the raised voices behind him. Harry was staring aimlessly across the lawn toward the Forbidden Forest when motion caught his eye. He froze. Was it the Grim?

Harry squinted through the slanting evening sunlight. After a minute’s frantic searching he located the source of the movement: a small creature, too small to be the Grim...it was a cat. Harry sagged against his broomstick with relief. It was only Crookshanks.

Or _was_ it only Crookshanks? The cat had stopped at the edge of the forest. There was something else moving in the shadow of the trees. Harry started forward then stopped and looked over his shoulder. Part of him wanted to confront the Grim if that’s what it was out there; to get things over with; but he didn’t want to face it alone. Maybe Draco...?

A hand fastened around his arm, making him jump. “Come on!” Draco hissed. “You’re missing the best part!”

Harry hesitated, glancing back toward the trees, but Crookshanks and his companion had vanished. He spent another moment searching for some sign of them, then let Draco drag him back to the pitch.

It looked like the fight was winding down.

“It’s not like I signed a contract,” Pucey was saying waspishly.

“So? You joined the team, you can’t quit on us now when you know we’re counting on you.”

“Watch me,” Pucey said. He turned on his heel and stomped off the pitch.

“Prat! Traitor!” Flint shouted after him. “Swot!” He kicked the box of equipment that held the Quaffle, Bludgers, and Snitch they would be practicing with, and swore.

The rest of the team was now coming onto the pitch, having passed Pucey on his way out; they looked confused. Harry and Draco hurried to join them in front of their seething captain. Flint lost no time in telling everyone what had happened. The news was met with unanimous outrage.

“He just quit on us?” Bole exclaimed. “That git!”

“Told you he didn’t have his priorities in order,” muttered Derrick, who like Bole had taken his O.W.L.s last year without skipping a single practice session. Harry wasn’t sure they’d scored very high, but he didn’t think that was because of Quidditch.

“He was always too much of a stickler for the rules anyway,” Montague said. “We’re better off without him.”

Flint grunted. “Doesn’t matter,”  he said, “either way we don’t have him, so we’re going to need to find a new Chaser. Bole, run up to the castle and see if you can find Warrington. Derrick, look for Vaisey. Tell ‘em they’ve got one chance to get onto the regular team and it’s now. If anybody else you run into wants to come try-out, fine, but we’re doing it right now tonight. I’m not waiting for anybody.”

The two Beaters nodded and took off at a sprint.

“Malfoy!” Flint shouted, and Draco jumped. He looked belligerent and surly, and Harry crossed his fingers, hoping his friend wasn’t going to say anything rash about what they’d overheard and make Flint even angrier. “Go find Snape and tell him what happened. Fast!”

Draco hesitated, probably thinking about arguing, but whatever he was going to say he apparently thought better of because he shoved his broom at Harry and ran for the castle without a word.

Harry carefully set Draco’s Nimbus down next to Bole’s Comet and Derrick’s Cleansweep and then sat with the rest of the team to wait. Flint did not join them but paced back and forth, muttering. Every now and then he would stop to scowl in the direction of Hogwarts. The other Slytherins complained quietly to themselves, not wanting to draw Flint’s attention. Harry learned a lot of words that would have interested Uncle Vernon greatly if he’d been familiar enough with the Wizarding World to know what they meant.

The first to get back was Derrick, who came alone. When Flint demanded why Vaisey wasn’t with him, Derrick replied, “He ain’t interested. Said he’d rather stay a reserve, thanks. Flying regular would mean too much time away from his studies.”

Despite being even bigger than Flint, Derrick ducked his head nervously when he was done speaking. For a moment no one said anything. Flint’s face scrunched up angrily and his ears turned red. “FINE!” he bellowed at last, “Fine! If everybody thinks grades are so much more important than Quidditch, bully for them!”

He walked away to kick the nearest bleacher. Everybody else stayed put.

“Figures,” Bletchely muttered, “he’s only the best scorer we have. Could be on the team any time he wants, but no, he’d rather play reserve, the swot. Pah.”

Montague—their other Chaser—gave Bletchley a dirty look, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Bole was the next to return, and he had Cassius Warrington in tow. Like Pucey, Warrington was a fifth year, but where Pucey was lanky Warrington was broad. A hulking boy with thick eyebrows and a wide jaw, he was even larger than Derrick and Bole, and Harry was constantly amazed that anyone who looked that much like Hagrid could actually fly on a broomstick, let alone well enough to play Chaser. He’d flown with him in practice only a few times, since reserve players didn’t often practice with the team (unless there was an escaped murderer hunting you down, in which case your captain declared it prudent that your potential replacement come to every practice session). In Harry’s estimation Warrington wasn’t as good as Pucey, or as Vaisey, but at least he knew the team and their moves.

“Sure,” he said immediately, when Flint asked him if he wanted to take Pucey’s place.

“Not going to drop-out at the last minute to focus on your O.W.L.s?” Flint asked.

Warrington shook his head. “Nah,” he said. “Trade flying for studying? Who’d be mental enough to do _that?_ ”

“Good,” Flint said. He smiled grimly. “Let’s get in the air. We have a lot of work to do.”

 

Flint wasn’t the only one giving Harry extra work that spring. With their exams coming soon, all the teachers were getting more serious about their schoolwork—even Professors McGonagall and Snape, whom Harry had thought were both already as serious as a person could be. It was almost a relief to face a morning with nothing but Care of Magical Creatures and Divination, even though it had meant playing assistant for Hagrid again as he introduced the class to a clutch of Bruckee cubs, one of whom had been teething. For once at least Harry hadn’t been the only one who got chewed on.

He sucked absently on the fingers the baby Bruckee had nibbled and followed his friends up the ladder into the dim, stifling tower room. Glowing on every little table was a crystal ball full of pearly white mist. Harry and Draco sat down at the same rickety table. Crabbe and Goyle, who each could have done with having a whole table to themselves, crowded together at the one beside them.

“Is she getting ahead of herself, or did she forget to clean-up after the last class?” Draco mused aloud. He didn’t seem to care if Professor Trelawney heard him, but Harry peered around warily.

“Don’t complain, this means we’ve finished palmistry,” he muttered back. “I was getting sick of her flinching every time she looked at my hands.”

“Good morning to you!” said the familiar, misty voice, and Professor Trelawney made her usual dramatic entrance out of the shadows. Lilian sighed dreamily and Millicent straightened up with excitement, their faces lit by the milky glow of their crystal ball.

“I have decided to introduce the crystal ball a little earlier than I had planned,” said Professor Trelawney, sitting with her back to the fire and gazing around. “The fates have informed me that your examination in June will concern the Orb, and I am anxious to give you sufficient practice.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “The ‘fates,’ huh?” he drawled quietly to Harry. “Do you think ‘the fates’ thought to remind her that she’s the one who sets the exam?”

Harry bit his lip to choke back a laugh.

It was hard to tell whether Professor Trelawney had heard him, as her face was hidden in shadow. She continued, however, as though she had not.

“Crystal gazing is a particularly refined art,” she said dreamily. “I do not expect any of you to See when first you peer into the Orb’s infinite depths. We shall start by practicing relaxing the conscious mind and external eyes”—Harry heard Goyle, sounding panicked, mutter, “Those’re the only eyes I’ve got!” and had to bite his knuckle to keep from laughing—“so as to clear the Inner Eye and the subconcious. Perhaps, if we are lucky, some of you will See before the end of the class.”

And so they began. Harry, at least, felt extremely foolish, staring blankly at the crystal ball, trying to keep his mind empty when thoughts such as “This is stupid” kept drifting across it. It didn’t help that Draco kept rolling his eyes and yawning. Crabbe and Goyle were whispering to each other, trying to figure out what eyes they were supposed to use if their external ones were closed in relaxation. Even if Harry had wanted to concentrate on staring at a cloudy glass ball, he wouldn’t have been able to with that conversation going on over his shoulder.

“Seen anything yet?” Harry asked Draco after a quarter of an hour’s fruitless crystal gazing.

“Yeah,” Draco said, nodding toward Crabbe and Goyle behind Harry, “nap time.”

Harry turned around to see that both of the burly boys had fallen asleep during their “relaxing,” and were now draped across their spindly table in a cramped pile.

He snorted and turned back around before he started laughing.

Professor Trelawney rustled past.

“Would anyone like me to help them interpret the shadowy portents within their Orb?” she murmured over the clinking of her bangles.

Draco brightened up. Before Trelawney’s usual fans could clamor for their attention he said, “Oh please professor, would you? I think there’s something _very_ interesting going on in our Orb, but I can’t quite make it out.”

Harry made a face at Draco as Professor Trelawney swept up behind him. Draco grinned, pleased with himself. Harry’s plots of revenge were aborted by Trelawney leaning over his shoulder to peer into their crystal ball through her thick spectacles. Harry braced himself. He was sure he knew what was coming—

“There is something here!” Professor Trelawney whispered, lowering her face to the ball, so that it was reflected twice in her huge glasses. “Something moving...but what is it?”

Harry was prepared to bet everything he owned, including his Firebolt, that it wasn’t good news, whatever it was. And sure enough—

“My dear...,” Professor Trelawney breathed, gazing up at Harry. “It is here, plainer than ever before...my dear, stalking toward you, growing ever closer...the Grim!”

There was a general outcry of dismay. “Oh no!” Lilian Moon wailed. “Professor, what can he do? Is there any avoiding this grim fate?” Harry peered at her suspicious. Lilian’s eyes were wide and damp and her face reeked of sincere concern. She didn’t seem to be aware of the pun she’d just made.

Trelawney stared hard at the crystal ball for a moment, then sighed dramatically. “It is too clear!” she cried at last, flopping backward onto an empty poof. “Too plain, too certain! My boy, there is no doubt at all about what the fates have, I fear, been pointing to since the first moment you set foot in my class: you, Harry Potter, are doomed!”

Trelawney sank backwards, mopping her forehead with her sleeve. Lilian, Millicent, and several of the other students crowded around her. Millicent flapped her hands in front of the Divination Professor’s face, fanning her. Lilian seemed torn between ministering to Trelawney and peeking in Harry’s crystal ball herself. Everyone else kept sneaking glances at him then looking away quickly.

“Is there any way I can get a timetable on that?” Harry heard himself asking brusquely.

The whispers and murmurs stopped abruptly. Everybody turned to stare at Harry. He could feel his face growing hot.

“I just mean, if I’m going to die before exams, I’d rather not waste what time I’ve got left studying for them, right?” Harry folded his arms, fed-up. “So can you give me any kind of an estimate on when exactly the Grim is finally going to make its move?”

Professor Trelawney brushed the fussing crowd of students away and sat up to stare at Harry. She was frowning. “You, my dear, are quite solidly trapped in the mundane world. I am sorry to say that since the very first day you set foot in my class, it has been apparent that you have very little of the aura that the noble art of Divination requires. I can only suggest that you learn to rise above your limitations by taking the word of those more receptive to the mystic vibrations than you are yourself.” Her sharp gesture took in not only herself but several of the class, including Lilian and Millicent, who blushed with pleasure. “If you cannot See yourself—and I am sorry to say that I do not think you will _ever_ be able to free your mind of your mundane shackles enough to do so, from what I have seen of you so far this year—you would do well to trust in those who can.”

She stood up abruptly and straightened her glasses. “Now,” she said, breathing heavily, “is there anyone _else_ who would like an expert’s assistance with their Orbs?”

Several hands went up and Professor Trelawney stalked across the room away from Harry and his friends. Goyle woke with a snort and asked, “Wha’d I miss?” sending the others into convulsions of laughter. Harry managed a grin, but couldn’t help but glance into his crystal ball. He saw nothing but swirling white mist. Obviously Draco didn’t believe Trelawney’s predictions anymore, but despite his own harsh words Harry felt unsettled. Had she really seen the Grim again? Would he? The last thing he needed was another near-fatal accident, not with Slytherin’s final Quidditch match drawing ever nearer.

 

By lunch most of the class seemed to have forgotten Professor Trelawney’s sighting of the Grim in favor of discussing their own experiences crystal gazing. Grumpily, Harry noted that he was the only one whose prediction had been so—well, _grim_.

He picked at his food and followed the others listlessly up the stairs to Charms class. By the time Flitwick was done with them Harry was feeling much better; the lesson had been on Cheering Charms, and practicing the spell had left them all with a feeling of great contentment. Since most of the Slytherins had a free period after Charms, the third years returned to their common room to relax, or get started on their homework. Millicent pulled out her new set of Gobstones and everybody crowded around to watch the game, or at least laugh at those who got squirted. Harry was just starting his turn when Theodore Nott came sprinting in to the dungeon, distracting him; Harry got such a great squirt that even with his glasses, some of the foul-smelling liquid oozed into his eyes.

Wincing, Harry bowed-out of the competition and scrubbed his face on the edge of his robes. Theodore went pelting out of the room again, his Arithmancy book now under his arm. Crabbe and Goyle put their heads together and cackled, so Harry guessed they must have switched his books when he wasn’t looking.

Shaking his head at his friends’ idea of fun, Harry followed Theodore out of the common room and wandered outside to the courtyard. He propped his arms on the stone wall and thought about the Grim. Had he really seen it again at Quidditch practice? And if so, what was it doing hanging around Hermione’s cat? And if Crookshanks could see the dog as well, how could it be an omen of Harry’s death?

Before Harry had come up with any answers he saw Hermione Granger come storming out of the castle, looking like she had just gone three rounds with one of Hagrid’s hippogriffs. There were tear-streaks on her face and her bushy hair was in an even worse tousle than usual. She slumped down onto a bench and dropped her over-stuffed schoolbag next to her. It hit the stones with a _thud_. Hermione propped her chin in her hands and sniffled.

Harry walked over hesitantly. “Er...hello, Hermione,” he said. “You all right?”

“Oh!” she straightened up and scrubbed a hand across her face. “Yes, perfectly! Thank you!”

“Er...right. Only, not to pry but, don’t you have Arithmancy right now?” He was sure he had heard Theodore complain about Hermione being in the class with him; the gripes about her being a know-it-all were the same no matter the subject, and few things got Theodore talking more than being outscored in a class he actually liked.

Hermione looked suddenly evasive. “Oh,” she said, “actually it’s Divination for me now....I’ve only just walked out....”

“Walked out?” Harry asked. “You mean Trelawney ended class early?”

Hermione bit her lip. “Not...exactly,” she said. “I’ve...well, I’ve dropped the subject, if you must know.”

“Dropped the subject?” Harry repeated, gaping at her. The Hermione Granger he knew wasn’t the sort of person to drop _any_ subject.

She gave a nervous laugh that turned into a sob. “It’s all Ron’s fault!” she cried. “Him and his—his _stupid_ rat!” Then Hermione burst into tears.

Harry, panicking, didn’t know what to do so he sat down next to her and gingerly put an arm around her shoulders. She flung her arms around his neck and sobbed. Harry tried not to move, or breathe, or blink. Eventually he patted her on the back, very gently.

After a while Hermione drew away. “Sorry,” she muttered, wiping her face with her robe.

“No problem,” Harry lied. “Er...feel better?”

She hesitated then nodded sheepishly. “A little,” she admitted.

“Do you, er...want to talk about it?”

Hermione shook her head no, but then said, “It started that day in Diagon Alley, when I bought my cat. Crookshanks, you remember him?”

Harry nodded. He didn’t think now was a good time to mention that he still laughed every time he remembered that big orange cat landing on Weasley’s head. Biting his lip to keep from smiling he grunted, “yeah.”

“Well, Ron took against Crookshanks right away, I’m afraid. And Crookshanks...well, he’s a _cat_ , isn’t he? All cats chase rats! But Ron decided that he was after Scabbers—that’s Ron’s rat—in particular. And Scabbers has simply _not been well_. And...and...and now he’s dead!”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “What, really?” he said.

“Well, he’s missing at any rate, and there was blood on Ron’s sheets and....”

“And he thinks Crookshanks did it?” Harry guessed.

Hermione nodded miserably. “There isn’t any proof,” she insisted. “Ron just doesn’t like Crookshanks, never has, not since he landed on his head in the shop.”

Harry turned a snicker into a murmur of concern.

“Well, he’s been beastly ever since Christmas, because he blames me for Scabbers being...er...gone.” Hermione wiped her eyes. “And I’m taking...rather a lot of classes,” she continued, “and it’s just been...a little bit stressful. And Divination—ooh!” She bristled. “I just don’t have time for that—for that _fraud!_ ” Hermione cried. “She’s completely ridiculous, and of course everybody else just _hangs_ on her every word like it’s—like it’s all _true!_ Anyone with half a brain can see that she just makes things up! And none of the things she’s ‘predicted’ have really come true, but if something even a little bit _like_ what she said happens, everybody runs off to—to _worship_ her for it!”

Harry nodded sympathetically. “She’s not much of a favorite of mine either,” he said.

Hermione folded her arms defiantly and said, “Well, so I...left.” Her cheeks had gone very pink. “Er...in the middle of class, actually. We were doing crystal balls and...and I just...couldn’t take it any more. I couldn’t sit there and listen to her just...just spout _nonsense_ and watch everyone else just lap it up, and she’s just _horrible_ , Harry, she’s horrible and _Ron_ is horrible and I just—I just couldn’t do it!”

By the time she’d finished talking her voice had gone shrill and there were fresh tears leaking from her eyes. Harry fished in his pocket and managed to come up with a grubby handkerchief. There was a big smear on it from where he’d cleaned his knife in Potions but he politely turned it the other way and offered it to Hermione.

She took it with a muttered “thank you” and scrubbed at her cheeks.

“You ask me,” Harry said, “that rat would be better off eaten by a cat anyway. It looked pretty miserable this summer, and didn’t the lady at the shop say rats only live a couple of years? Better to end it quick than waste away. I think Weasley owes you not just an apology but a thank you, if your cat _did_ eat his rat. It basically did him a favor.”

“That’s a horrible thing to say,” Hermione protested, but her voice lacked conviction.

“If you say so.” Harry shrugged. “I think it—Scabbers, right? I think Scabbers would agree with me.”

Hermione slumped on the bench. “Well, Ron certainly doesn’t. He’s been _horrible_ about it.”

“Want me to slip a dungbomb into his bag?” Harry offered. “Or I could ask Crabbe and Goyle to...er...have some _words_ with him about his bad attitude...?”

“What? No!” Hermione said quickly. “No, I don’t want to hurt him! I just...I want him to see _sense!_ ”

“Ah,” said Harry. “Sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry.” Hermione shook her head. “Here I am rambling on about things that aren’t your problem at all, and I didn’t even say hello! How are you? Everything all right?”

Harry hesitated. What could he say? That he was afraid of a big spectral dog that might be stalking him to his death? That he half-believed Professor Trelawney’s predictions of doom? He couldn’t tell Hermione that. After what she’d said about Divination today, she’d think he was some kind of an idiot. And he couldn’t very well expect sympathy from a Gryffindor if he confessed that he was worried he’d be replaced as Seeker if Slytherin didn’t beat Gryffindor for the Quidditch Cup. And as far as Sirius Black went, Harry had been trying not to think about him; every time he did he was filled with the urge to leave Hogwarts and hunt him down himself.

Deciding there wasn’t anything he wanted to tell her, Harry smiled. “Yeah,” he said, “yeah everything’s all right. Thanks.”

“That’s good.” Hermione answering smile was watery. “Well, I’ve probably taken up enough of your time, and I have loads of homework to see to anyway...”

“Yeah,” Harry stood up, “I’ve got Transfiguration next, wouldn’t want to be late to that.”

“Thank you, Harry.” Hermione stood as well and shouldered her bulging schoolbag. “It was, um...it was nice to talk to you again.”

Harry nodded. “If you change your mind about Weasley....” he offered, only half-joking.

“Oh stop it,” Hermione told him tartly. She shook her head and walked away.

Harry rubbed his forehead, glad that he didn’t have Hermione’s headaches to deal with. He had plenty of his own already, and he’d hate to be in her shoes. Despite what he’d said to Hermione, he was certain that her cat had killed Weasley’s rat. He suspected she thought the same thing and just didn’t want to admit it—either to Weasley or herself.

Harry decided he would take his friends over Hermione’s any day. Having to explain simple things to Crabbe and Goyle could get tiring, and Draco’s posturing grated on his nerves, but at least they were honest with each other.

The Easter holidays were not exactly relaxing. The third years had never had so much homework, and Flint was using every spare moment to get their replacement Chaser up to speed before the Hufflepuff match. Harry had to fit in his revision around a grueling practice schedule. His only comfort was that Draco was in the same boat only worse, because not only was Flint still insisting that Draco come to all their practices, but he had all the same classes Harry did, plus Ancient Runes.

“Don’t see why you’re fussin’ so much,” Crabbe grumbled at Draco one night after he’d been shushed three times for distracting him. “Ever’body knows Granger’ll get the top marks again anyway, so you might as well relax an’ enjoy the break.”

Harry flinched and Goyle dropped his quill, which splattered ink all over his copy of _Unfogging the Future_. Pansy gasped and Daphne’s book slid to the floor with a thud. Even Crabbe knew he’d made a mistake. He shrank in on himself like a turtle. “I, I meant... ‘cause the teachers’ll give it to her from pity...so there’s nothin’ you can do about it even though you’re smarter, so....”

Draco said nothing. He pointed and Crabbe meekly gathered his things and moved to the other side of the common room. Nobody spoke to him for the rest of the night.

Tensions were running high in the rest of the school too. There were only two Quidditch matches left in the season: Slytherin vs Hufflepuff and Gryffindor vs Ravenclaw. While Hufflepuff’s victory over Gryffindor in February had given Slytherin a chance to catch-up, they now had to beat the Hufflepuff team by a wide margin to keep from losing the Cup to them instead. Worse, even if they won by a hundred points it might not matter depending on what happened between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. Since there wasn’t much the Slytherins could do about that final match, they’d decided to ignore it and focus on Hufflepuff. This meant that the burden of winning fell largely on Harry, because capturing  the Snitch was worth one hundred and fifty points.

“Diggory’s a lot better than MacLaggen,” Flint reminded him for the hundredth time. “Even with a Firebolt you can’t underestimate him. He’s bigger than you too, so I’ve got Derrick and Bole keeping an eye on things. If he goes for the Snitch before we’re ready they can help knock him off-course ‘cause you won’t be able to block him, and just beating him to it won’t be enough this time.” Harry would have protested this pessimistic assessment of his skills, but Flint didn’t give him the chance: “They can’t spend the whole match watching the Seeker though, so you gotta be ready to shout if you need help. All right?”

“I know,” Harry grumbled, “I won’t try to be a hero.”

“Good,” Flint said. “If I wanted grand-standing, I’d put Malfoy in.” He frowned. “What about them dementors? You figure out how to deal with those yet?”

“They haven’t come to any matches since—”

“Yeah, but they _might_. I don’t wanna risk it, not on our last match. Maybe I should put Malfoy in anyway...”

“I’m ready for the dementors!” Harry lied. “I can handle them. I’m doing great with Lupin’s lessons. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” said Flint. “You better be. We’re all counting on you, remember.”

“I remember,” Harry assured him.

 

The night before the match Harry slept badly. First he dreamed that he had overslept, and that he entered the common room in his pajamas to find everybody cheering Draco for winning the match. Then he dreamed that the Hufflepuff team arrived for the match riding flying badgers. He was flying at breakneck speed, trying to keep Diggory’s badger from chewing the tail off his broom, when he realized he had forgotten his Firebolt. He fell through the air and woke with a start.

It was a few seconds before Harry remembered that the match hadn’t taken place yet, that he was safe in bed, and that badgers couldn’t fly. Feeling grumpy, he rolled over and buried his head under the covers. After several minutes without falling asleep he gave up. Quietly as he could, he got out of his four-poster and moved to one of the big underwater windows. Harry sat on the wide sill and rested his head against the glass. It felt cool on his sweaty head after so long under the blankets.

Harry didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep until Draco shook him awake.

“What are you doing there?” he asked. “Come on, get dressed! Unless you’re ill—”

“I feel fine,” Harry said, scrambling for his clothes. He pretended not to notice the disappointment on Draco’s face. “Let’s get some breakfast.”

 

Harry and the rest of the Slytherin team entered the Great Hall to enormous applause—and taunts. Harry swallowed hard when he saw that both the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw table were jeering them. The Hufflepuff table booed loudly as they passed. Harry thought Diggory’s smile looked tenser than usual.

Draco kept needling Harry to eat, but his stomach felt like it was already full of lead. Warrington looked even more nervous than Harry, and kept dropping his silverware. Flint shoveled his food down in a few massive bites then hurried the rest of the team off to the field so they could get an idea of the conditions. The one downside to their elegant dungeon common room was that its only windows looked out into the lake, so the Slytherins never knew what the weather was until they came upstairs.

It looked like they had lucked out today, though. There was very little wind to speak of, which would give Harry an advantage over Hufflepuff’s older and larger Seeker. The ground was hard and dry and the sun was bright enough to make everybody squint—not a cloud in the sky. Harry pulled out his goggles and swapped them for his glasses. There was no sign of the Grim—or the dementors. Leaving the field to the Hufflepuffs to scout, the Slytherins trooped into the locker room to change and listen to Flint’s threats and warnings.

Most of them seemed to be directed at Harry, but no one made it through the lecture unscathed. By the time Flint was done talking Derrick and Bole looked murderous and Warrington’s coppery cheeks had taken on a decidedly oxidized tone. Harry himself was regretting the sausage he had managed to eat and was relieved when Flint finally finished and told them to “get out there and smear them into the grass, all right?”

The Slytherins walked out onto the field to a tidal wave of noise. Three-quarters of the crowd were wearing yellow rosettes, waving yellow flags with the Hufflepuff badger upon them, or brandishing banners with slogans like “HUZZAH HUFFLEPUFF!” and “BADGERS FOR THE CUP!” Behind their goalposts, however, two hundred people were wearing green. The silver serpent of Slytherin glittered on their flags and Professor Snape sat in the very front row, wearing green like everyone else, and a very grim smile.

Harry immediately felt better. Maybe if they won the Cup, Snape would even forgive Harry for stealing his Firebolt back. Filled with determination, he mounted his broom and waited for the whistle.

“And here comes the Slytherin team!” yelled Lee Jordan, who was once again acting as commentator. For a moment Harry hoped that he would be less biased than usual, but then: “You can see that Captain Flint has made some changes to the lineup and seems to be going for size rather than skill—”

The rest of his words were drowned by a tide of “boos” from the Slytherin end. Harry joined in, as did the rest of the team; Warrington directed a rude hand gesture toward Jordan, who was busy introducing the Hufflepuffs now and didn’t seem to see it. The Hufflepuff team, especially their captain, were met with tumultuous applause from the rest of the school. Harry scowled at them.

“Captains, shake hands!” said Madam Hooch.

Flint and Diggory approached each other and grasped each other’s hands, Diggory with a friendly smile and Flint with a not-so-friendly sneer. _We’ll see how cheerful he looks when I’ve caught the Snitch_ , Harry thought fiercely.

“Mount your brooms!” said Madam Hooch. “Three...two...one...”

The sound of her whistle was lost in the roar from the crowd as fourteen brooms rose into the air. Harry felt his hair fly back off his forehead; his nerves left him in the thrill of the flight; he glanced around, saw Diggory on his tail, and sped off in search of the Snitch.

When he turned around to look for Diggory he was surprised to find the Hufflepuff Seeker so close to his tail. Not only was Diggory’s broom inferior to Harry’s Firebolt, he was also taller and broader and ought to have been inconvenienced by his greater size. Bent low over the shaft of his Twigger to reduce his wind resistance though, he was only a few lengths behind and while he showed no signs of catching up, he wasn’t falling behind either.

Harry swore, flattened himself against his Firebolt, and threw on a burst of speed.

He led Diggory on a merry chase around the perimeter of the pitch, periodically dodging a heavy Bludger or swerving to keep from colliding with another player in green. (The Hufflepuffs he didn’t bother to avoid; let them scramble to get out of his way; with his faster broomstick he could turn on a knut if he needed to and none of them had the nerves to play chicken with a Firebolt.) At some point Diggory stopped following him but Harry only realized the other Seeker had turned away when he saw a yellow blur stooping toward the ground.

Harry swore again and raced to catch up but a glitter of gold in the corner of his eye made him stop. His Firebolt halted easily in midair and Harry scanned the goalposts until he saw it again: the Snitch ducked behind Bletchley’s shoulder and vanished as Cadwallader swooped past with the Quaffle. Harry winced as he watched Hufflepuff score. He looked around for Diggory. The other Seeker had pulled out of his feint and was circling the pitch again. He paused to shout something to his other Chasers and Harry was struck by the thought that it must be difficult to captain a team and watch for the Snitch at the same time. He wondered if there was a way he could make use of Diggory’s distraction.

A Bludger that came close enough to ruffle his hair put an end to his musing and Harry dove aside as a Hufflepuff Beater flew past, Bole close on her tail. He spent the next several minutes keeping one eye on Bludgers and the other on Cedric Diggory; the Hufflepuff captain was managing to split his attention, at least as far as Harry could tell from the other side of the pitch, pretty evenly between guiding his team and keeping his own eyes out for the Snitch. Harry wasn’t sure how he felt about multitasking as a Seeker but as long as Diggory was going to, it seemed a good excuse for him to meddle with the rest of the game as well.

Harry dove for two Hufflepuff Chasers as they advanced on goal; he caught an elbow in the nose that made his eyes water but Warrington managed to grab the Quaffle while they were distracted. He scored while Derrick distracted the Hufflepuff Keeper with a Bludger so Harry decided it had been worth the pain. He pushed his goggles up so he could wipe his eyes then looked around for somewhere else he could help. The Slytherin team had to outscore Hufflepuff by a significant margin before he caught the Snitch if they were going to win the Cup.

That trick only worked twice more; even with the Firebolt’s superior speed the Hufflepuff players soon got wise to the unorthodox move and made sure to keep track of where Harry was so he couldn’t dart in and startle them again. Diggory took advantage of Harry’s split attention to pull three more successful feints, the last of which almost resulted in Harry plowing into one of the goal hoops at top speed. His plan to distract the Hufflepuffs seemed to be working though—or maybe the Slytherin Chasers were just flying better than usual today—because his teammates soon had a significant lead in points.

Harry wasn’t ready to catch the Snitch yet, but the Snitch had other plans. While everybody else was watching a pile-up around the Hufflepuff goal—two of their Chasers had gotten tangled with Bole and the Bludger that Derrick had sent winging at them all hadn’t helped—a glint of gold at the other end of the pitch caught Harry’s eye. Diggory spotted it at almost the same moment; they both rocketed forward.

Diggory was closer but Harry was faster; he quickly gained ground on the older boy. Unfortunately Diggory was also bigger and the fastest path to the Snitch was straight through the him. Harry gulped, grimaced, and bent low over his broom, trying to slip by without being noticed. They were too close together; Diggory’s yellow robes slapped Harry’s shoulder as he inched forward. Diggory didn’t have to turn his head to see where Harry was; he just sideslipped right, blocking him easily. Harry gritted his teeth and pushed the Firebolt harder, lurching up without losing much more than five inches in distance, which he quickly made up by angling down again and letting gravity help urge him faster. Diggory bent as well, following the Snitch as it dove toward the earth.

They were side by side now. Neither boy would risk the wind resistance of turning his head, but Harry sneaked peeks at Cedric out of the corner of his eye and he was sure the Hufflepuff Seeker was doing the same. The ground was coming closer with alarming speed, the Snitch still dropping. Harry gripped his broomstick tighter and risked lifting a hand, stretching it forward; he could see Diggory doing the same. The older boy had a longer reach but Harry’s broomstick had better maneuverability; he could risk going closer to the ground than Diggory. Would the Hufflepuff pull up?

Harry’s vision narrowed to the glittering golden Snitch and its blurred green backdrop. He forgot about Diggory; forgot about the screams of the crowd; forgot about the Cup. All that mattered was catching the Snitch. Fingers brushed his hand; he shook them aside and stretched forward along his broomstick. He could feel the beating of the Snitch’s wings—the cool smoothness of the metal—he closed his fingers around it—dragged on his broomstick as hard as he could, pulling up—

He didn’t make it. Harry’s toes brushed dirt. Even the Firebolt’s pinpoint maneuverability wasn’t enough to get him airborne again; he tumbled head-over-heels off his broom, one thought in his head: _don’t let go of the Snitch_.

He hit the ground hard, bounced, hit it again, and rolled. Harry came to a stop on his back, every inch of him aching. He tasted dirt and grass and something coppery that was probably blood. All he could see was a dark green blur in front of him. If he’d been wearing his glasses instead of his goggles they’d have certainly been shattered.

Harry threw his robes off his head and raised an arm in triumph right where he lay, the Golden Snitch clutched tight in his hand. He didn’t think the ringing in his ears was entirely from the roar of the crowd but he grinned anyway. They had won!

Canary-yellow robes swept across his blurred vision and Harry struggled to his feet, not wanting to be caught on the ground if Diggory wanted revenge. But all he did was stick out his hand and, smiling amiably, told Harry, “Nice catch!”

“Er—thanks,” said Harry uncertainly, and gingerly shook the Hufflepuff Seeker’s hand. “Uh, nice flying.”

“You too,” said Diggory. “Good game.” He nodded to Flint and the other Slytherin players who were running up to Harry now, followed by a crowd of green-clad supporters. Harry was swarmed, his back thumped and his hair ruffled by what felt like hundreds of people, and then he was lifted onto Derrick and Bole’s shoulders for a victory lap around the pitch. Someone handed him his Firebolt and he raised that in his other hand like a trophy.

He saw Diggory, walking away, sling his arms around two of his Chasers and congratulate them on a match well flown. The rest of the Hufflepuff team fell-in beside them, looking disappointed but not furious like Harry expected. They had to have known that they had just lost their chance for the Quidditch Cup. Whether it ended up going to Slytherin or someone else, the Hufflepuff team was now officially out of the running.

Harry didn’t think he would be able to act that gracious if their situations had been reversed.

Thoughts of Cedric Diggory were quickly driven out of his head as the Slytherins headed back up to the castle to celebrate long into the night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I'm a dork, here's a little [doodle](http://tathrin.deviantart.com/art/Hermione-Quits-Divination-GES-III-640738345) from this chapter:  
> 


	15. Professor Trelawney's Prediction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have only just realized that one of the documents I lost when my computer died (see chapter nine) was the updated version of Harry's class schedule that I had been keeping for this story, and thus when I continued working on it after the crash, the schedule I referred to was outdated. His schedule of classes in the story is thus not consistent, and I apologize for that (although to be fair, even in canon his schedule doesn't make much sense)! It seems silly to go back and re-write anything at this point, so I am going to leave the inconsistencies as they are, as they don't really impact the story. I believe that if we decide to say that class schedules change between the first and second term, it all still works out, so let's just go with that shall we? Again, I apologize for the oversight!

May came in with harsh winds that whistled through the windows of the higher towers. In their cool, underwater common room, the Slytherins were insulated from it, but Harry overheard some of the Gryffindors in their potions class complaining that the noise made it hard to sleep. They complained a great deal more about Quidditch; while most of the Hufflepuffs had taken their defeat with grudging good grace, the Gryffindors by contrast seemed to view Slytherin’s victory as a personal affront. They would have to beat Ravenclaw by an almost impossible margin now to have any chance of winning the Quidditch Cup, and they lost no time in letting the Slytherin team know what they thought about being put in such a position.

For his part, Harry enjoyed the grumbles. He viewed the Gryffindors’ bad mood as a personal triumph. Safe behind the bulky muscles of Crabbe and Goyle, and with Draco’s sharp tongue ready to answer-back any insults tossed their way, he sailed down hallways and up staircases with a breezy grin. The way Weasley’s ears got red whenever he walked into Potions, or the way Oliver Wood seemed to develop lockjaw whenever he spotted Harry coming into the Great Hall, made him feel like he ought to be able to cast a patronus right on the spot.

His lessons with Lupin were going well, although he hadn’t managed to conjure anything corporeal yet. Still, his cloudlike shield was strong enough to push the boggart-dementor back across the room, and once Harry thought he saw something that might have been horns rise out of the top of it. He hadn’t passed out in weeks, and while part of him missed his mother’s voice, he knew that no longer hearing her murder was the goal he’d been working toward.

With Slytherin’s final Quidditch match won, Lupin suggested they stop the lessons, but Harry refused. “The dementors aren’t going away until Sirius Black is caught,” Harry said grimly, “and no matter what the Ministry is telling people, Draco’s dad says they’re no closer to catching him now than they were last summer. If he’s still at large next year, and the dementors are still guarding the school—well, I’d just as soon learn this spell now.”

Harry noticed that Lupin flinched whenever Black’s name was mentioned. He had made up his mind to confront Professor Lupin over what he knew about Harry’s parents and the friend who had betrayed them, but he wanted to wait until after exams were done. There was no sense in risking a bad grade in Defense Against the Dark Arts because he’d upset his professor. It was hard to hold his tongue though; every time he looked at the boggart-dementor he remembered what he’d heard, and the urge to find Sirius Black and get revenge swelled up like hot bile in the back of his throat.

Divination classes, on the other hand, were only getting worse. It seemed that every lesson revealed yet another portent of doom, most of them directed at Harry. While Harry was glad that his friends no longer seemed to fear for his life at each prediction, it was hard to maintain a good mood when Professor Trelawney was constantly telling him how he was about to die. It was almost a relief to have her turn her focus to their end of the year exams.

 “Of course,” she told halfway through Monday’s lesson, “examinations like this can hardly measure whether or not one has the _true_ Sight, but the school likes its little tests, so we must harness ourselves to the mundane at the end of every school year, pointless though it may be.” She sighed heavily, the noise echoed by Lilian and Millicent. Draco pretended to gag.

Harry was feeling very drowsy. Despite the warm weather Professor Trelawney had the curtains closed and the fire as high as ever. The sickly scent of the oppressive air was fogging all of Harry’s senses and he wasn’t sure if the clouds he saw drifting across his vision were in the crystal ball he was supposed to be gazing into, or in front of his bleary eyes as he dozed.

“I hope that some of you, at least, will be able to See for your exams, but I am afraid that if the rest of you do not learn to open your minds and adjust your senses, you will have no chance of being one of the lucky few.”

“If she’s so good at seeing the future,” Draco whispered snidely, “why bother making us come to exams at all? Can’t she just predict our grades and record those?”

Harry grinned and yawned. “I predict I need a nap,” he retorted. Draco snickered.

Millicent cleared her throat and glared at them pointedly. Harry straightened-up in his chair and tried to look attentive as Professor Trelawney droned on at them about the importance of cultivating a rich aura. “I’ll buy her an aura if she’ll shut-up,” Draco hissed. Harry’s lips twitched but he fought the urge to laugh; Millicent was still glaring at him.

When Trelawney finally drifted away to the other side of the room Millicent turned her gaze to follow. Harry folded his arms on the table and rested his head on them as though they were a pillow; he had been up until nearly two in the morning finishing an essay on the transmutational properties of porcelain for Professor McGonagall, and the perfumed smoke from Trelawney’s fire was giving him a headache. He didn’t see why he couldn’t crystal gaze from a prone position just as well as he could an upright one, and he was halfway through preparing a story to explain this point to the dreamy professor when a loud, harsh voice made him jerk upright.

 _“IT WILL HAPPEN TONIGHT_. _”_

The whole class went still, their muffled whispers and rustling fidgets abruptly silenced. Everyone turned to stare at Professor Trelawney. She was standing quite rigid next to her usual armchair. Her eyes started to roll. Harry looked around at the rest of the class; they all looked as bewildered and uncertain as he felt.

“Should we—maybe Madam Pomfrey?” Daphne ventured—and then Professor Trelawney spoke again, in the same harsh voice, quite unlike her own:

_“THE DARK LORD LIES ALONE AND FRIENDLESS, ABANDONED BY HIS FOLLOWERS. HIS SERVANT HAS BEEN CHAINED THESE TWELVE YEARS. TONIGHT, BEFORE MIDNIGHT...THE SERVANT WILL BREAK FREE AND SET OUT TO REJOIN HIS MASTER. THE DARK LORD WILL RISE AGAIN WITH HIS SERVANT’S AID, GREATER AND MORE TERRIBLE THAN EVER BEFORE. TONIGHT...BEFORE MIDNIGHT...THE SERVANT...WILL SET OUT...TO REJOIN...HIS MASTER....”_

Professor Trelawney’s head fell forward onto her chest. She swayed in place and made a grunting sort of noise. Then, quite suddenly, Professor Trelawney’s head snapped up again.

She met the many wide eyes of her students and gave a breathy little laugh. “I am so sorry, my dears,” she said dreamily, “I seem to have lost my train of thought. The heat of the day, you know...I drifted off for a moment....”

Nobody seemed to want to speak. Harry’s mouth felt dry.

“Well, there’s no sense trying to force the Inner Eye! We might as well leave it there for today, I think. I will be in my office this evening during the usual time if anyone has any additional questions they want addressed for their exam—yes, Miss Moon?”

Lilian’s hair was navy today; it made the unnatural pallor of her gold-brown cheeks stand out starkly in contrast.

“Professor, you just—what you just _said—_ ”

“Well, dear, I know that there’s no real _point_ to the exams, but we Seers must make allowances for the mundane which surrounds us. It is a burden that we must learn to bear....”

“No professor,” Daphne interrupted, “the bit about—about the Dark Lord....”

“Dark Lord? What are you talking about?” Professor Trelawney looked confused. Harry glanced at Draco, whose bloodless face was even paler than Lilian’s.

“You said the Dark Lord would rise again,” Draco rasped, his voice almost as hoarse as Trelawney’s had been a moment ago. “You said it would be tonight.”

A ringing silence followed, broken when Trelawney exclaimed, “The Dark Lord? He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? My dear boy, that’s hardly something to joke about....”

“Indeed!” snapped Draco.

There was a murmur of agreement from the rest of the class, most of whom were still staring fixedly at Trelawney. She looked thoroughly startled.

“What nonsense!” Trelawney snapped. “I think I would know if I had said anything as far-fetched as that! Now let’s have no more of this silliness. Divination is a very serious art and should be treated with respect, and don’t think that I won’t take housepoints if you continue to mock it!”

She glared at them ferociously from behind her spectacles. The class exchanged fearful looks but nobody said anything else. Harry didn’t think it was Professor Trelawney they were afraid of. He didn’t think it was even the threat of losing housepoints.

If the rest of the class felt anything like he did, Harry knew they were only quiet because they couldn’t think of anything to say.

Still huffy, Professor Trelawney dismissed them with waspish instructions to clear their minds and try and lift themselves above the mundane. Silently the class filed down the spindly ladder, none of them willing to look one another in the eye.

When the trapdoor finally closed behind the last student, however, a flurry of whispering broke out.

“She didn’t mean _the_ dark lord though, right?”

“That was just a—just a bad joke!”

“Should we tell somebody about that? The Ministry maybe?”

“Do you think she was faking it?”

“Who do you think she meant—his servant?”

Harry frowned. “Yeah,” he said, “that’s a good question. You don’t think she meant Sirius Black, do you Draco?” He turned around. “Draco?”

Draco broke away from a hushed conversation with Crabbe and Goyle, a guilty look on his pallid face. “What?” he asked.

“Sirius Black,” Harry repeated impatiently. “You don’t think that’s who Trelawney meant, do you? The servant?”

Draco blinked, as though the idea hadn’t occurred to him. Then he shook his head. “No, can’t be,” he said. His voice was a shrill gasp. He cleared his throat and continued in a more normal tone, “She said the, er, the servant was going to break free _tonight_ , right? Black broke out months ago.”

“Oh right,” said Harry. “But then...if not him, who did she mean? Do you think somebody else is going to break out of Azkaban?”

“Maybe Sirius Black has given up on getting into Hogwarts alone and has decided he wants help, and he’s gone back to Azkaban to break out some friends,” said Millicent Bulstrode, sounding breathless.

“Maybe Trelawney’s a fraud who thought it’d be funny to scare us all with a totally inappropriate ‘prediction’ about You-Know-Who to inspire us to study harder,” Daphne Greengrass said sourly. She had made no secret of the fact that she disliked Trelawney ever since her warning the first day of class about Daphne’s little sister. Harry thought it had driven something of a wedge between her and Millicent, who had once been close friends.

“Yeah, probably,” Draco agreed, but he was pale and sweating and he didn’t sound convinced.

“There are none so blind as those who will not see,” Lilian Moon declaimed in a haughty sing-song. “Is this not also exactly as Professor Trelawney is always predicting, warning us? That those who lack vision forever refuse to recognize it in those who bear the burden of Sight?”

She sighed dramatically and fluttered away, Millicent casting a dark glare at Harry and his friends before catching-up and bending her head close to Lilian’s. Harry could hear them gushing as they turned the corner.

“Idiots,” Daphne growled, and stomped off in their wake.

 

Harry was preoccupied all through dinner. From the uncharacteristically muted conversations at his end of the Slytherin table he wasn’t the only one thinking about Professor Trelawney’s strange prediction. Even after two helpings of treacle it was still weighing on his mind. Draco was engaged in a whispered conversation with Theodore Nott, filling him in on what had happened during Divination, and neither Crabbe nor Goyle were stellar conversationalists. There wasn’t anyone else he felt like talking to about it—or about his growing conviction that Trelawney’s words had to have _something_ to do with Sirius Black—so he kept his thoughts to himself.

Distracted as he was, Harry didn’t notice the Weasley twins lingering in the doorway with Lee Jordan until they bumped into him. Startled, Harry almost went for his wand, but for once the Gryffindors seemed to have something better to do than plague him. George gave him a threatening waggle of his eyebrows but then all three Gryffindors walked away without further comment.

“I guess studying for O.W.L.s even gets to them,” he muttered.

“What’s that?” said Draco, peeling away from Theodore.

“Nothing,” said Harry. He waggled a dismissive hand in the direction of the Weasleys’ retreating backs. “Let’s just get to work. I think I started filling in my Astronomy chart upside down and I want to get to sleep sometime tonight.”

Draco laughed and led the way to the dungeon.

They settled onto their usual couches—the second years who had been sitting there scattering as soon as Crabbe cracked his knuckles—and resigned themselves to a long evening of revision. After twenty minutes Crabbe and Goyle gave up and moved to the floor so they could set up a game of Exploding Snap instead. Draco gave them a dark look but he was too busy with Ancient Runes to bring them to heel. After another twenty minutes of redrawing his Astronomy Chart, Harry was tempted to call winner. Redoing work he’d already done once was hard enough under ordinary circumstances but the memory of Trelawney’s eerie prediction kept distracting him. It was another quarter of an hour before he finally finished.

Harry inked the last star’s name and sat back with a satisfied sigh. He blew on the parchment to dry his work, then grabbed his school bag to put the completed assignment away somewhere safe before he took a break. “Hey Draco,” he started to say, “Sirius Black can’t be the only Death Eater in Azkaban. I know you said he’d been kicked out of the family ages ago, but do you know if he had any special friends who were also—OUCH!”

Harry yanked his hand out of his bag. A small, fluffy black creature came with it, sharp teeth clamped tight on his thumb. Harry jumped to his feet and shook his hand wildly but that only made the creature hold on tighter, wrapping tiny paws around his wrist and biting down harder. Harry danced around the room, swearing, while his friends roared with laughter.

Eventually he forced himself to calm down and sit. He pressed down on the hinges of the creature’s jaws until it released his finger. Harry grabbed it by the scruff of its neck before it could bite him again and held it up for inspection. It looked a little bit like a rodent but not one that he had ever seen before. Its snout was longer and its fur much fluffier. It squirmed in his grip and let out tiny squeaks of distress. Harry sucked on his finger and glared at it.

“You better not be poisonous, whatever you are,” he muttered around the injured digit.

“Nah.” That was Taylor Alden, the fifth year who had shared Harry’s Christmas holidays, now leaning across the back of Harry’s chair. “That’s a niffler. They aren’t dangerous—not to people, anyway. They cause one hell of a mess if you let them loose indoors. Treasure hunters,” Taylor added in response to Harry’s curious look. “Goblins use ‘em to find gold. They’re mad for anything sparkly.”

“Great,” said Harry. “Well I definitely can’t let it go in here then. What am I supposed to do with it? And where did it come from?”

Taylor shrugged and moved away, back to a table covered in books and parchment that a few fifth years had commandeered for their O.W.L. revision. “Dunno—but you won’t want to just let it go somewhere outside. It’ll find its way back to the castle in a heartbeat and you don’t want to be blamed for letting a niffler loose on everybody’s stuff.” The fifth years laughed and bent their heads back over their work.

“Great,” Harry said again. He propped his chin in his free hand, winced, and scowled at the squirming niffler. It was so ugly it was almost cute but that didn’t make his finger feel any better. Besides, he was swamped with homework already. The last thing he needed was a strange animal to deal with on top of all that, and Sirius Black too.

Goyle abandoned his exploding cards and scooted over to peer at the niffler. “Funny looking thing,” he observed. “What’cha gonna do with it?”

“I have no idea,” Harry said glumly. “I suppose it isn’t dangerous enough to pass off to Professor Lupin.”

“Not likely,” Draco snickered. He leaned down to get a better look at the squeaking creature but he made sure to stand well out of reach. His hands—and their shiny rings—he kept tucked safely behind him. The niffler swung a paw toward him and he danced back quickly, although there was no way the little creature could have stretched far enough to touch him. “Better keep a good grip on it,” he cautioned Harry.

“Well I can’t just hold onto it for the rest of the night!” Harry protested.

“So take it to Hagrid,” Goyle shrugged.

Harry looked at up him.

“Well…he’s in charge of teachin’ us about Magical Creatures, right?” Goyle asked, ducking his head defensively. “So doesn’t that mean he oughta know how to deal with ‘em?”

“That’s…actually a really good idea,” Harry said, surprised.

“It is?” Goyle looked up, beaming.

“I’ll go right now.” Harry stood up. “Thanks, Goyle.”

“Oh,” said Goyle. “No problem.” He grinned happily.

“We’ll all go,” Draco decided. He cast a quick glare at his Ancient Runes homework. “A break will do us good,” he muttered, “and while I doubt that Hagrid will have any idea of how a niffler got into your school bag, he might come up with an explanation accidentally if we ask the right questions.”

Harry rolled his eyes but didn’t bother to argue. Besides, he probably wouldn’t have been allowed out of the castle alone, even though it was still light out.

“What about our game?” Crabbe protested, pointing to the abandoned cards.

“What about it?” Draco asked.

Crabbe grumbled but gathered up the deck and stuffed it into a pocket. Their books and papers they left where they were; Harry doubted that any of their housemates would risk the retribution that Draco would bring down on them if they messed with his homework, even if any of them somehow had enough free time to entertain the idea.

They let Goyle lead the way, Draco not wanting to have the niffler behind him. Crabbe trailed behind sullenly but he kept his grumbles to himself. They had over an hour before curfew but Harry made them walk fast anyway; the niffler was still struggling and his arm was getting tired. He almost dropped it as they came up to Hagrid’s hut. Someone had stuck a few galleons around the path as though preparing to plant a golden harvest and the niffler only needed one good whiff of the shiny metal to redouble its efforts to get free.

“What’s he trying to do?” Draco asked, frowning at the coins. “Do you think someone told him that if he plants money he can harvest more later?” he scoffed.

“They say it grows on trees, right?” Crabbe offered.

The others laughed but Harry was too distracted by trying to hold onto the ferociously struggling creature to either join in or tell them off for making fun of Hagrid. By the time they reached the front door of the gamekeeper’s hut he had to wrap both his hands around the niffler. At his nod Goyle stepped forward to knock. If Harry’s hands had been free he would have crossed his fingers that Hagrid was home; he didn’t know how much longer he could hang onto the creature, and it wouldn’t be long before the tightened security measures sent them all back inside.

Hagrid opened the door on the third knock. He looked startled to see them but broke into a grin when he spotted Harry. “Well ain’t this a pleasant surprise!” Hagrid exclaimed. “Come in, come in! I was  jus’ thinkin’ abou’ yer, Harry—”

“Hagrid, I’ve got a niffler,” Harry said before the large teacher could launch into some story.

Hagrid looked down at the squirming creature clamped in Harry’s hands. “Well, so yer do!” he exclaimed. He broke into a sappy, sparkly-eyed grin. “Ar, lookit ‘im, he smells the bait I put down.”

“The—wait, the bait?” Harry looked over his shoulder at the rows of Galleons. “You don’t mean those coins outside? You were trying to catch a niffler?”

“Sure, sure,” Hagrid said, waving them all to seats. Draco grimaced and perched gingerly on the edge of a rough wooden chair; Crabbe and Goyle sank onto an overstuffed armchair that was big enough to hold them both side-by-side. Harry remained standing, not wanting to risk the niffler slipping free if he relaxed. “Yeh ran into the little blighter on yer way down, yeah? ‘Preciate yer hangin’ onto ‘im fer me.”

“What? No, no this was—I found it in my school bag,” Harry explained, confused.

“In yer school bag?” Hagrid repeated. “Now ‘ow did he get in there?”

“What are you doing keeping nifflers around in the first place?” Draco burst out.

“Ah, they’re harmless little mites,” Hagrid said. “Real affectionate once yer get to know ‘em.”

“And an incredibly destructive force when inside a house—or a school!” Draco crossed his arms and scowled at Hagrid who seemed not to notice the rebuke in his voice. Harry, having had more than enough experience this year with Hagrid’s definition of “harmless little mites,” was inclined to side with Draco’s opinion—although by Hagrid’s usual standards, the niffler was pretty cuddly.

Hagrid scratched his head. “Yeah, I wonder ‘ow he got in there,” he said again. “After me lesson with the fifth years today I noticed one of ‘em had slipped off on ‘is own, but nifflers aren’t generally far-rangin’ creatures without someone around to guide ‘em. Guess he musta got lost, eh?” he grinned.

A very different idea was forming in Harry’s head. He remembered bumping into the Weasleys and being relieved that they’d been too preoccupied to bother him. Now he wondered if their latest prank had just been an little more subdued than usual. From the look on Draco’s face he seemed to be thinking the same thing.

Crabbe and Goyle were staring around the cluttered interior of the hut with bland, unsuspicious expressions on their wide faces. Harry wasn’t surprised that they had missed the significance of Hagrid’s statement; they rarely noticed anything until Draco pointed it out.

“Well, let’s take care o’ this little feller then, eh?” Hagrid asked. He held out his hands for the niffler and Harry handed it over happily. The rodent was dwarfed in Hagrid’s massive hands. It snuffled around curiously then curled up in the center of one dinner plate-sized palm, seemingly content to sit quietly rather than struggle as it had for Harry. Hagrid plucked a chunk of what looked like pyrite off his cluttered mantle and handed it to the niffler, which shrieked with delight and clutched the shiny stone in all four paws. Hagrid chuckled and slipped the niffler into one of his pockets. They could hear it snuffling around in there for a few minutes before that noise was replaced by a steady, light wheeze, as though the rodent-like creature was snoring.

Harry shook his head.

Hagrid clapped his hands together, making everyone jump. “Well since yer all here,” he offered, “I can make some tea if yer like?” It was hard to see his expression behind his bushy black beard but Harry thought he looked hopeful, maybe even a little anxious.

“Yes,” said Harry immediately, thinking of the pile of homework waiting for him back up at the castle and wanting to put it off longer.

“No,” said Draco at the same time, wrinkling his nose. Then he looked at Harry and sighed. “Oh all right then,” he relented and Hagrid, beaming, bustled off to heat the kettle. Harry dusted his hands off on his robes and sat down at the high table next to Draco who leaned over and muttered, “But if we all catch some horrible ailment from—from slobber-contaminated cups or dragon-dung biscuits or something, I’m blaming you.”

Harry snorted. “Fine,” he whispered back, and rolled his eyes. He thought about pointing out that Draco worked with far more disgusting things in Potions class almost every day with perfect delight but decided that he didn’t want to start a fight right now.

“Where’s the dog?” Goyle asked suddenly.

“What?” said Draco. Harry stared at Goyle, confused. He knew his friend was a bit dim, but surely Goyle knew the difference between a dog and a niffler. Besides, he’d seen Hagrid put the little rodent in his pocket too, hadn’t he?

“There’s a dog,” Goyle insisted. He pointed at Hagrid. “You got a dog.”

“Yeh mean Fang?” said Hagrid. “I put ‘im out by the hippogriff pen. Didn’ want his barkin’ ter scare off the niffler, did I?”

“Oh,” Goyle nodded. “Yeah, that was smart.”

Harry and Draco had to look away from each other before they laughed.

Hagrid, looking very pleased with himself, set out the tea service. Even though everything was a little bigger than normal, it still reminded Harry of a child playing with doll’s things. The illusion wasn’t helped when Crabbe and Goyle joined them at the table; while they were both small compared to Hagrid, they were larger than any other third years, and something about their posture made them look like they were looming even when around older, larger students.

Harry knew better than to accept when Hagrid offered them all a plate of rock cakes; he had had too much experience with Hagrid’s cooking. Crabbe and Goyle were slow learners: they each grabbed one and started gnawing. Harry sipped his tea while Draco prodded uncertainly at one of the lumpy cakes. He made a face and sat back without even pretending to be interested.

Hagrid didn’t seem to notice. He bustled around making sure that everyone had enough milk and sugar and asking if they wanted seconds of the cakes. Goyle was the only one who said yes. Harry stared in shock as Goyle, with evident enjoyment, swallowed three more rock cakes before he knocked the milk jug off the table with a stray elbow.

“Oops,” said Goyle, as milk and broken crockery splattered across the floor.

“Don’ worry! I’ll take care o’ that!” Hagrid leaped to his feet, making the table rattle. Harry caught the tea pot before it fell while Crabbe helpfully snatched the rest of the cakes.

“Sorry,” Goyle mumbled, spraying crumbs.

“Not ter worry!” Hagrid insisted as he mopped up the mess. “There’s another one in the cupboard.”

“I’ll get it,” Harry said, and jumped up before anyone else could make more of a mess. He could see Draco eyeing the rag Hagrid had used to clean the spill, his face scrunched with distaste. Harry knew he should make their excuses and return to the castle so they could work on their revision but he couldn’t bear the thought of more schoolwork tonight. He wanted to draw-out this visit as long as he could and if Draco decided to take offense at the untidiness of Hagrid’s cluttered hut he would be outvoted. Even if Crabbe and Goyle were no more eager to get back to work than Harry was, if Draco told them it was time to leave, they would side with him.

Harry flashed determined smiles at everyone and rummaged through the indicated cupboard for the replacement milk jug. He found it behind a chipped mug the size of his head. “Here we go!” he said brightly, “All sorted—”

He stopped talking abruptly, staring into the empty jug in horror. It wasn’t empty at all but it wasn’t filled with old milk or even with mold; instead an ugly brown rat was curled up inside, apparently enjoying a nap.

Harry’s eyes flicked to Draco, then to Hagrid, then back to the rat. How could he get rid of the creature without Draco realizing there had been a rodent in the milk jug? If he saw that he’d not only make them leave immediately, he’d never agree to set foot in Hagrid’s again. Harry cast about wildly, trying to think of a solution. Before he could come up with anything Hagrid leaned over and plucked the jug out of his hands.

“There we go,” he said cheerfully, “I’ll jus’ fill this one up and—blimey!”

Harry groaned and covered his face.

“There’s a rat in ‘ere!” Hagrid exclaimed.

“There’s a WHAT?” Draco jumped down out of his chair. Crabbe and Goyle followed a moment later out of habit, although they both looked more confused than upset.

“A little rat,” Hagrid repeated, bending down over the jug to peer closer inside. “Now what are yer doin’ in there?” he asked the rat. “Did yer get lost, eh?”

“Lost? In your milk jug?” Draco looked green.

Hagrid, apparently unconcerned, stumped to the table and turned it upside down. With a frantic squeak, and much scrambling to get back inside, a skinny brown rat came sliding out onto the table. The rat looked around at all of them as though assessing its chances, then bolted for the gap between Crabbe and Goyle. He didn’t get far; Crabbe caught the rodent by its tail as it launched itself into the air and pressed it back down on the table, one large hand clenched around its tail like an anchor.

Harry stared miserably at the rat. Then he blinked, frowned, and moved closer for a better look. “I don’t believe it,” he said, “It’s—that’s Scabbers!”

Everyone stared at him blankly. “It’s Ron Weasley’s rat,” he explained impatiently. “It’s been missing—everyone thinks Hermione’s cat ate him—I guess he’s been hiding out here to avoid the cat?” Harry shrugged. “Whatever, we should take him back up to the castle.”

“Why?” asked Draco. He looked like he wasn’t sure whether to be more or less disgusted now that he knew the rat wasn’t a common stray; belonging to a Weasley probably wasn’t much better in Draco’s estimation, maybe even a little worse.

“Everyone thinks the rat is dead,” Harry repeated. “They think Hermione’s cat ate it. If we bring it back, they’ll know they were wrong.”

“So?” Draco said. He was looking at Harry like he was speaking in tongues again.

Harry sighed. “So Hermione is my friend,” he said, “and she’s upset because everybody is mad at her over what her cat did.”

“Ah,” said Hagrid suddenly breaking in and shaking his head mournfully, “yeh can’ be mad at no cat for eatin’ a rat. Or tryin’ to eat a rat, neither. Tha’s jus’ what cats do.”

“Well I guess Weasley doesn’t see it that way,” Harry said, emptying one of the pockets of his robe into the other to make room for the rat. “Because he’s really mad at Hermione, and she refuses to admit her cat ate it and she ought to apologize—although she doesn’t have to after all I guess, since it didn’t—but now Weasley won’t have any choice but to take it back once we return his rat. No matter how stupid it was that he got mad in the first place,” Harry added in deference to Hagrid’s point.

“Well, people can be a bit stupid abou’ their pets,” Hagrid said sagely.

Harry thought about all the dangerous beasts that Hagrid had fawned over in front of them in Care of Magical Creatures Class and raised his eyebrows. He met Draco’s eyes across the table; the other boy was mirroring his expression. “Do tell,” he drawled. Harry snorted.

“Anyway,” he said, taking the rat from Crabbe and stuffing it into his pocket, “we should take this back up to the castle. Thanks for the tea, Hagrid—and the rat.”

Hagrid chuckled. “O’ course, o’ course,” he said. “Yeh come an’ visit anytime.”

Draco snorted but didn’t say anything. Harry gave a noncommittal smile and nod and led the way out the door quickly before Draco could proclaim any ultimatums. His pocket squeaked angrily and he had to keep one hand cupped over the lump to prevent Scabbers from escaping.

Suddenly Crabbe laughed. The others turned to stare at him.

“We went down there to get rid of a rodent, and now we’re coming back with a diff’rent one.” He grinned at them and insisted, “It’s funny.”

Draco rolled his eyes but Harry smiled. “I guess it is a little bit,” he admitted.

They had walked another few paces before Goyle said, “Oh, I get it!” and chuckled. Draco rolled his eyes again. Harry snickered. _That_ was funny.

Scabbers didn’t seem to agree; he squeaked and squealed and squirmed, struggling harder with every step they took away from Hagrid’s hut. Harry rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure you’d rather stay with Hagrid than go back to Weasley,” he told the rat, “what animal _wouldn’t_ prefer Hagrid to anyone else? But you belong to Weasley so you’ll just have to deal with it, all right?”

The rat turned and bit him. “Ouch!” said Harry, yanking his hand out of his pocket, and the rat with it.

He gripped the rat by the scruff of its neck and lifted it up in front of his face so he could glare at it. “Stop that!” he scolded. Scabbers didn’t listen but rather struggled harder. Harry swore and tried to get a better grip on the squirming rodent. Goyle clapped his hands over his ears and made a face; Harry couldn’t blame him, the rat’s shrieks were shrill and very loud.

“I could shut it up if you like,” Crabbe offered darkly.

Harry shook his head and concentrated on maintaining his grip on the furious rodent. It almost squirmed free several times; once Harry barely caught Scabber by the tail in time to stop him escaping.

“This is ridiculous,” Draco said, but Harry didn’t dare look away from the rat to say anything in reply. Then there was a jet of red light and Draco snapped, “Stupefy!”

The rat stiffened and went limp. Harry almost dropped it in surprise.

He rounded on Draco. “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

Draco met his frown with an unrepentant shrug. “It’ll be easier to carry now,” he said.

“And what if you’d missed and hit me?” Harry retorted.

Draco shrugged again. “Well, then I guess the rat would have gotten away.”

Harry fumed but couldn’t deny that Draco had a point; Scabbers _was_ a lot easier to carry now that he was unconscious. He stuffed the rat back into his pocket and walked faster, wanting to return the thing to Weasley before it woke up and caused any more problems. His friends trotted to keep up.

They were almost at the castle when Harry stumbled. He stopped, staring, unwilling to believe his eyes. On the other side of the lawn, coming toward them rapidly, was the Grim.

“Do you—do you see—?” he stammered, fumbling for Goyle’s shoulder.

Goyle turned at his touch. “Doggie!” he said excitedly, and started forward.

“No!” Harry dragged at his arm, trying to hold him back. “No, that’s not what—” He paused. If Goyle could see it too, how could it be the Grim? Was it an ordinary dog, just a coincidence?

Whatever it was, it was charging toward them. As it got closer Harry could hear a low growl rumbling from its throat.

“What are you two standing around for?” Draco turned back, froze, and yelped. “Run!” he shouted, and bolted for the castle doors. Crabbe turned to look for the threat; saw the dog; saw Goyle with Harry hanging uselessly off his arm; and acted faster than Harry had thought he could. He grabbed Goyle’s arm and tugged, a lot more successfully than Harry. Goyle looked back, confused, then let Crabbe pull him toward the castle at a run.

Harry followed but since he kept turning to look at the dog he didn’t move as fast. The others burst through the door a few steps ahead of him. Harry put on a final burst of speed, resisted the urge to turn and look behind him again—told himself that he was imagining the feel of hot breath on his neck—and sprinted up the stairs and across the threshold.

The dog followed them.

Harry could hear its claws scrabbling on the flagstones behind him and couldn’t resist glancing over his shoulder. The dog wasn’t as tight on his heels as he had imagined; maybe it had had some trouble with the stairs. He almost breathed a sigh of relief but then his feet went out from under him and he hit the floor hard. He skidded across the flagstones and fetched up against the wall. He fumbled in his pocket for his wand but the Stupefied rat got in the way. The dog took two big jumps and paused, snarling, over Harry. He shut his eyes and flung up his arms to shield his head, bracing for the feeling of sharp teeth sinking into his flesh. The Grim had finally got him.

“NO!” A shout made Harry and the dog both look up, startled.

Professor Lupin was halfway down the main staircase, hanging over the banister, his face slack with horror. His mouth moved again but if he spoke it was too quietly for Harry to hear.

The dog twitched, looked back at Harry and caught his gaze with disconcertingly intelligent black eyes, and then turned and bolted back outside.

Harry didn’t even have a chance to get his breath back before he found himself surrounded. Goyle had to haul him to his feet. “Are you all right?” Draco asked, sounding terrified. Harry nodded but before he could answer rough hands grabbed his shoulders and turned him around so he was standing face to face with Professor Lupin.

“Are you all right?” Lupin gasped, his face as white as Draco’s.

“I’m fine,” Harry said. “It didn’t even touch me. Thanks for scaring it away—”

Lupin lurched backwards, hardly seeming to hear what Harry said, his hands dropping away limply. “I have to speak to Dumbledore,” he said, more to himself than to them. “I have to—at once—have to tell him—everything—” He turned and pushed his way blindly through the crowd of students. Harry caught a glimpse of him going up the stairs at a staggering run and then he was swarmed by people exclaiming in shock and horror.

“I can’t believe that just happened!”

“Trelawney was right all along!”

“If you see the Grim but it’s after somebody else, you’re not in any danger, right?”

“What are you going to do, Potter?”

“That was the Grim, wasn’t it? That was really the Grim!”

“But that—that means he’s going to die!”

Harry felt sick. His shoulder ached where it had hit the wall. “Leave me alone,” he snapped. “I’m not going to die! That wasn’t the Grim, that was just a—just some dog! Don’t be stupid!” He shoved his way through the press of panicky students, a task made easier when Goyle and Crabbe shouldered their way over next to him. “It was probably just some tosser’s idea of a joke,” he added, turning back to scowl at the chattering cluster of students. “Someone who heard that Trelawney’s been predicting my death so they thought it would be funny to sic a big black dog on me.” He snorted his disbelief, trying to convince himself as much as them. “Just a stupid prank,” he insisted.

Suddenly he remembered the Weasley twins. For once the thought of those red-haired troublemakers actually made Harry feel better, not worse. If they had been behind the dog, he really didn’t have anything to worry about. They were nowhere in sight but their little sister was; Harry spotted Ginny Weasley watching him anxiously from across the hall. He doubted she would know if her brothers had sicced the dog on him; given how she tended to scream at them for teasing Harry, they would probably have made sure to keep her in the dark.

Harry looked back at his audience and smiled sourly. “Real funny, wasn’t it?” he said, and forced a bitter laugh. A few people laughed along nervously but most of the faces he could see looked unconvinced. Goyle chuckled dutifully but Draco looked pale and shaken. Crabbe had stomped off to look out at the grounds through the open doors.

“Dog’s gone,” he announced. Immediately most of the students hurried over to look for themselves. Harry sighed with relief as their attention shifted away from him.

Draco sidled over to stand next to him. “Do you really think it was a prank?” he asked.

Harry shrugged and put his hands in his pockets, trying to look casual. The feel of fur reminded him why they had been hurrying across the grounds in the first place and he looked around to see if Hermione was part of the crowd now peering nervously through the open doorway to the grounds. “Sure,” he answered Draco distractedly, wondering how long a Stunning Spell would keep a rat sedated, “what else could it have been?”

Draco looked like he had thought of several unpleasant possibilities but Harry was too busy to listen to them. “Hang on a second,” he told his friend, and hurried across the entrance hall to where Ginny Weasley stood, now talking at great speed to a blonde girl that Harry didn’t recognize.

“Er,” said Harry.

Ginny looked up at once. She looked a little shaken but it was a far cry from the bloodless terror he had seen on her face last year. When she saw Harry a little crease of worry folded between her brows. “Are you all right?” she asked him, much more calmly than either Professor Lupin or Draco had.

 “What?” said Harry. “Oh, yeah. Sorry. I’m fine. It didn’t, er, didn’t get a chance to do anything to me.” He shifted awkwardly and squeezed the furry lump in his pocket, checking that it was still inert. “Listen, I’m looking for Hermione, do you know where she is? I have—there’s something I need to give her. Quickly.”

Ginny frowned but didn’t waste time asking questions. “I think she’s in the library,” she said. “That’s where she usually is until curfew. She says the common room is too noisy to study in.”

Harry nodded. “Thanks,” he said, and almost bowled over Draco as he turned to leave; the blond boy was practically standing on his heels.

“Are you really all right?” Draco asked dubiously. He looked a lot more rattled than Ginny.

“I’m fine,” Harry said. “Honest. Come on, we need to get to the library.”

“The _library?”_ Draco repeated incredulously. He fell into step behind Harry, probably more out of curiosity than obedience.

“Hurry,” Harry said, “before the rat wakes up—or before the teachers decide to lock us in our common rooms so they can make sure the dog wasn’t working for Sirius Black,” Harry explained sardonically. He jogged up the stairs, Draco frowning as he followed. Heavy footfalls made him turn but it was just Crabbe and Goyle hurrying to catch up. Harry regretted his flippant comment when he saw them; the last thing he needed right now was for one of them to think he’d been serious about Black recruiting the Grim—or at least a Grim lookalike—to get to him. Despite the number of times Draco had explained it to them, Harry wasn’t sure that either Crabbe or Goyle really understood how sarcasm worked.

Fortunately running up five flights of stairs and down a number of hallways left none of them with much breath for speaking. By the time the four of them skidded to a halt outside the library doors Crabbe and Goyle had probably forgotten what he’d said, if they’d heard it at all. They had to slow down then because no one, not even Crabbe, would willingly upset Madam Pince, the school librarian. She looked up from her desk with a suspicious frown as they scurried inside. “Have you forgotten the new curfew? The library closes in twenty minutes,” she snapped at them.

“We know,” Harry said quickly, “we’ll only be a minute.”

Madam Pince eyed them dubiously but she didn’t say anything else. Harry could feel her gaze on the back of his neck until they turned a corner into the stacks. He found himself staring at a shelf full of Divination books and paused, distracted. Maybe he should have bought that book on omens from Flourish and Blotts. It suddenly seemed like there was a lot more about the Grim that he ought to know—such as whether or not it could actually run around like a solid dog.

A squirming at his side distracted him and he forced himself to push thoughts of the Grim aside. He had almost died getting this rat back to the castle, he wasn’t going to lose it now. He pressed his hand tightly over his pocket to keep Scabbers in place as the groggy rat began to wake up. “Let’s split up,” Harry said. “We need to find Hermione and fast.”

“Hermione?” Draco repeated. “Hermione Granger?”

Harry fought back the urge to ask if his friend knew anyone else named Hermione. “Yes,” he said instead, “I want to give this stupid rat to her before it causes any more problems. If that’s okay with you?”

Draco huffed indignantly. “Fine,” he said, “if it’s all that important to you.”

“Thank you,” said Harry, and turned quickly down the nearest row of books before Draco could argue further. He heard Crabbe and Goyle getting their instructions on where to look, then three sets of footsteps separated down different stacks. Between the upcoming exams and the new security restrictions there were more people in the library than usual. Harry saw several faces he recognized but no sign of the bushy mane he was looking for.

Daphne Greengrass was sitting at a table outside the Charms shelves with her little sister and a few other Slytherins. “Have you seen Hermione anywhere?” he asked her as he walked past.

“Hermione Granger?” Daphne said. Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“Why on earth would we know where _she_ is?” Pansy Parkinson looked up from her book and wrinkled her nose. “Why are you looking for her anyway?” she added suspiciously.

“Never mind,” said Harry. He didn’t have time to waste arguing.

He didn’t even bother to ask Theodore Nott, who was buried up to his elbows in Arithmancy problems at the next table over. That did give him an idea, though. Nursing his hunch, Harry made a beeline for the Arithmancy section.

Sure enough Hermione was there, the table she was sitting at piled high with books and parchment. Harry sighed with relief and jogged over to her, hand cupped around the fidgeting rat in his pocket.

“Hermione!” he hissed. “Hermione, look at this!”

She looked up and yelped quietly, startled. “Harry! What on earth are you doing here?” she whispered. She looked tired and there was a smear of ink across her forehead and an extra quill behind one ear. Harry wondered when she had last slept.

He made sure he had a tight grip on the squirming rat before he brought it out of his pocket.

Hermione stared at it blankly for a moment then gave a little shriek of delight—or at least of surprise. Looking mortified she immediately clapped her hands over her mouth and looked around nervously for Madam Pince. When no angry librarian showed up to tell her off she uncovered her mouth and leaned closer to the proffered rodent.

“Is that—that can’t be—Scabbers?” she whispered.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “I mean, I think it is, anyway.” The rat looked miserable and manky, which was all Harry really remembered about Weasley’s pet, and it occurred to him suddenly that he might have gone to a lot of work for no good reason. Hermione didn’t hesitate though: she snatched the rat and turned him every which way as though checking for injuries, or maybe just for identifying characteristics.

“It is!” she exclaimed in a little squeak. “Oh, Harry, this is wonderful! Wherever did you find him?”

Harry started to explain about getting bit by the niffler and going down to Hagrid’s and Crabbe breaking the milk jug, but he got the sense Hermione wasn’t really listening. She was holding the rat tightly while she one-handedly stuffed her things haphazardly back into her bulging school bag. There were several more books piled on the table than she had room for in the sack.

“Just grab those for me, will you Harry?” she asked, cutting off his story. “I want to get Scabbers back to Ron right away! Oh, is he going to be sorry!” That idea seemed to fill her with satisfaction and she set a brisk pace out of the library.

Harry was left to scurry along in her wake with a heavy pile of books in his arms. He stammered something about having to gather his friends before he left but Hermione didn’t seem to hear him. She made straight for the door, barely sparing a nod for Madam Pince as she left. Harry grimaced and followed, hoping that she had properly checked all of her books out already, and he wasn’t about to get in trouble for stealing from the library.

He found Crabbe sulking outside. Harry didn’t have time to ask what rule he had broken to be expelled; Hermione was already halfway down the corridor and picking up speed. “Tell Draco we’re going to Gryffindor Tower, will you?” he asked Crabbe, hoping that was where Hermione was headed.

Crabbe grunted something that might have been a yes. Harry couldn’t stay to make sure he would pass the message on. He walked as quickly as he could without dropping the stack of books and managed to catch up with Hermione around the next corner.

The rat was squeaking in her hands, its bald tail whipping back and forth unhappily, but the whiteness of her knuckles and the grim determination on her face banished any worries he might have felt about Scabbers slipping free.

“What’s the rush?” he panted.

“Ron has been an absolute beast for months over his stupid rat,” Hermione said. “I want to see his face when he has to apologize for all the awful things he’s said—and I’m not sure I’m going to accept it when he does.” She tossed her hair defiantly. “I’ll have to think it over— _after_ exams,” she added in a lofty voice, sticking her nose in the air. “I simply don’t have enough extra time in my study schedule to set any aside right now for thinking about stupid boys who said nasty things about my perfectly innocent cat.”

Harry nodded and made what he hoped was a sympathetic grunt. Fortunately Hermione didn’t seem to require his opinion; she didn’t look at him once as she blazed down the hallway.

Harry trotted up the stairs after her. He tried to peek at his watch without losing his grip on the stack of books he was carrying and silently lamented the fact that he didn’t have the Invisibility Cloak with him. It was getting close to curfew and he didn’t want to get caught by Filch on his way back to the dungeons. He wondered if his friends were going to wait for him, come looking for him, or head straight to their common room once they realized he had left. Harry was trying to decide whether he should head back past the library or go directly to the dungeon himself when Hermione shouted:

“RON!”

Harry jumped and almost dropped the books.

A group of Gryffindors halfway down the hallway in front of them turned to stare. Hermione walked up to them briskly and shoved the rat in Weasley’s scowling face. He looked angry, then startled, then confused. “Scabbers?” he gasped, staring dumbly.

“Go on, then!” Hermione snapped at him, and he took the squirming rat from her in something of a daze.

“But that’s…how did…where did…?” he stammered.

“Not in my cat’s stomach, that’s for sure!” Hermione shrilled triumphantly.

Weasley’s face darkened and his ears turned pink. “Well….” he mumbled, checking Scabbers over for signs of injury.

Hermione spun on her heel and held out her arms to Harry. He goggled a moment, then quickly pushed the stack of books into her arms. “Thank you, Harry,” she said. She staggered a bit under the weight then spun back to face Weasley and his friends. The other boys looked like they weren’t sure what to say. Weasley was still looking at Scabbers. Harry suspected he was studying the rat more to avoid meeting Hermione’s eyes than out of real concern.

“Well?” Hermione demanded again.

“Well...thanks,” he muttered.

“Is that all you have to say to me?” Hermione asked.

Weasley shuffled his feet awkwardly. He looked at the others for some help or suggestions but got only weak shrugs. “I’m…sorry I called your cat beastly,” he added reluctantly. When Hermione didn’t move he added, “And called you a liar. And…look, what do you want? All the evidence—”

“Evidence!” Hermione interrupted. “I don’t know what better evidence you need than what you’re holding right now!”

“All right, so I was wrong,” Weasley admitted grudgingly. “I said I was sorry—”

“You didn’t, actually.”

“Well, then I am now.” Weasley’s eyes flicked to Harry and narrowed suspiciously. “Where did you find him, anyway?” he asked.

“Down in Hagrid’s hut,” Harry answered. He checked his watch again and started backing away. “Anyway Hermione, I better get back to my common room…”

“Oh! Of course, Harry. Thank you so much again. It was so _generous_ of you to bring Scabbers all the way up here so I could give him back to Ron.”

“Er, yeah,” Weasley agreed, using the effort of stuffing the squirming rat into his pocket to avoid looking directly at Harry, “thanks, Potter.”

“Right,” said Harry, “no problem. Er…have a good night,” he said insincerely, while he struggled not to grin at the thought that Weasley was in for a long evening of “I told you so’s” from Hermione. He wondered how long she would make him grovel, and hoped she wouldn’t let him off lightly.

With that cheerful thought to sustain him he took the stairs two at a time, remembering to jump the trick one at the last minute, and bolted for the dungeons. There was no one waiting for him outside the library so he ran on. Halfway down the stairs between the fourth and third floor he found a group of Slytherins and Hufflepuffs. From the books in their arms they must have just left the library. Spotting a familiar shock of white-blonde hair in the middle of the group, Harry shouted and waved to get Draco’s attention.

He turned, then paused and pulled Crabbe and Goyle to the side of the stairs with him. They waited for Harry to catch up while the others went on ahead. “So nice of you to wait for us,” Draco drawled sarcastically as Harry trotted over.

“Sorry,” Harry panted. “Hermione didn’t really give me a choice. She—”

Suddenly there was a lot of shouting off in the distance. Almost as one—Goyle lagging a few steps behind everyone else, as usual—the four of them pelted around the corner. They almost ran smack into the edge of the crowd. Harry grabbed someone’s shoulder to stop himself falling over. “Sorry,” he told Hannah Abbott, who ignored him. Harry rose onto his toes to see what she was staring at and his mouth fell open.

Down the hall, just past the statue of the one-eyed witch—her hump now gaping open—the Grim stood facing Professors McGonagall, Lupin, and Sprout. The three of them had their wands pointing at it. The dog’s hackles were raised and it was growling.

Lupin was pleading with the Grim: “There’s no way out,” he told it. His voice sounded stuffy, like he was fighting a cold, and he looked paler than usual. Harry tried to remember if there had been any mention of Grims in their Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook and couldn’t think of any. Maybe they covered Death Omen Creatures in more advanced years. From the worry on Lupin’s face, and the tense line of McGonagall’s lips and the quivering frown on Sprout’s brows, Harry guessed that they were probably beyond what was expected of third year students. Lupin extended his free hand toward the Grim, entreating it like he would a person. “Please don’t make this harder than it has to be. Just give yourself up—”

The dog snarled and stood up into a man. Several people shrieked. It took Harry a minute to process what he was looking at. The straggly black hair, the waxy skin, the sunken cheeks, the grubby robe—It was Sirius Black. The Grim was Sirius Black.

“You haven’t even got a wand!” Lupin cried, his voice breaking. “You’ve lost, just give up.”

Black hunched in on himself like a wounded animal and for a moment Harry thought it would all be over. Then his arm lashed-out and he snatched a small figure from the front edge of the crowd of students. Everyone else screamed and dove away from him, moving backwards in a wave of arms and knees. Harry’s feet got stepped on heavily and a stray elbow caught him on his cheekbone but he pushed his way forward against the tide for a better view. Wands twitched but the teachers couldn’t fire any spells without hitting the students behind Black—probably why they hadn’t attacked him to start with, Harry guessed.

When Black turned around again he had a tight grip on little first year Astoria Greengrass. “I’ve got a knife though,” he sneered at Professor Lupin. His voice sounded rusty, like it had been a long time since he’d used it. He coughed and continued, “There’s no spell you can use that’ll take me down before I can slit her throat.” Astoria whimpered. Somewhere in the crowd someone screamed. It sounded like Daphne.

“Put your wands down,” Black barked. The teachers wavered. “Do it!” he shouted. Astoria started to cry. Black looked down at her and grimaced in distaste, then jerked his gaze back up to the teachers quickly, as if expecting some kind of sneak-attack.

Sprout was the first to lower her wand, followed reluctantly by Lupin. Professor McGonagall stared at Black for another long moment, her eyes blazing, then she jerked her arm down to her side. “What now?” she asked him tersely. “Surely you don’t think you can simply waltz out of here, Mr. Black. This school has a great number of defenses—”

“Most of which won’t dare touch me as long as I’ve got a student with me,” he retorted hoarsely.

Harry saw Sprout notice him in the middle of the crowd; she gasped and leaned in as if to whisper to McGonagall but the Transfiguration professor jerked her head in the tiniest of shakes. Harry had a feeling that she had seen him the moment he sprinted around the corner and she was doing her best to keep Black from turning around and spotting him. Part of Harry wished she would fail; he wondered what Black would do if he realized that the object of his quest was so close.

“Don’t be an idiot,” McGonagall was saying to Black in her best lecturing voice. “There is no way you can get away, let alone finish what you came here for—”

“Shut-up!” Most of the students gasped; the idea that anyone, even a deranged murderer, would dare tell Professor McGonagall to shut-up was almost unfathomable.

Black was inching backwards, away from the teachers. The students shuffled away as he approached, although Millicent had to drag Daphne along. Harry eased forward slowly, hardly daring to breathe, his eyes fixed on Black. He saw the knife he was holding twitch as Astoria’s tears landed on the back of his hand. “Please,” Astoria whimpered. Black gave her a shake and she went quiet with a gulp.

“She’s just a child!” McGonagall snapped. “You used to be a decent person once upon a time. Don’t tell me you’re so far gone now that you’d hurt a little girl who has nothing to do with any of this.”

“You have no idea what I won’t do anymore,” Black replied. His voice was a thin, mocking laugh.

“We do though,” Lupin said quietly. “We all do. Lily and James, Sirius—how could you?”

Harry felt as though he was suddenly watching himself from a long way away. He felt his hand slide into his pocket, fingers folding tight around his wand. His arm came free again, wand at his side, slowly raising toward his shoulder. He moved forward through the crowd. It seemed to part in front of him as though some invisible force was pushing everyone aside. Moving with dreamlike slowness he stepped forward, past where Pansy and Millicent were restraining Daphne, to stand right behind Sirius Black.

“Let her go,” Harry said. His voice sounded strange, like it had picked up an echo from somewhere. He couldn’t think of any spells but a terrible pressure was building behind his eyes, in his fingers; it seemed like for once he wouldn’t need any words to get the magic to do what he wanted.

Black turned around. His eyes seemed to take a long time to focus. “Harry,” he croaked at last. His knuckles went white as his grip on the knife tightened. Astoria’s terrified, tear-streaked face was full of pleading as she stared at Harry, but he didn’t take his eyes off her captor.

“No!” shouted Draco, somewhere in the crowd. “What are you doing, get back here!”

“Potter, get away from there right now!” McGonagall ordered, her voice gone shrill.

Harry ignored both his friend and his teacher, stared instead at Sirius Black. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s me you want, not Astoria. Let her go.”

“No,” said Black, a frown breaking across his features. He no longer looked mad, just tired. He started trembling almost as badly as Astoria, as though the urge to risk it all and try to kill Harry was almost more than he could bear now that he was facing him at last. Harry knew exactly how he felt. “No, I’m not here for you. I’m here for—”

Several things happened at once then: A jet of red light hit the ceiling above them sending chips of stone raining on their heads. Professor Lupin screamed, “No! You’ll hit Harry!” as he lunged in front of McGonagall, fouling her aim. Astoria fastened her teeth in Black’s hand, making him shout. She almost immediately drew back, spitting and gagging in disgust; no part of Black looked clean, especially not his muddied hands. “It’s just a Stunner!” McGonagall screeched. “Out of the way, Remus!” And Harry darted forward and pressed the tip of his wand into the sunken, waxy cheek of the man who had betrayed his parents. Their eyes met, grey and green, one wide with shock and the other narrowed in hate.

For a long moment the whole world seemed to freeze.

“You don’t understand,” Black whispered. His lips barely moved. Harry couldn’t even be sure he really heard him. “It didn’t happen like you think—”

Then coils of thick ropes came out of nowhere and wrapped around Black like a cocoon. Astoria tumbled free and hit the flagstones with a shriek. The knife clattered to the ground next to her. Harry staggered sideways, his balance lost as Black was drawn away from him, writhing against his bonds.

Albus Dumbledore came striding down the hallway, robes flapping behind him like a jay’s bright wings. “No!” Harry shouted, seeing vengeance slipping away from him. No one seemed to hear him; Daphne was shrieking for her sister at the top of her lungs and Black was making enough noise for twelve people:

“Moony!” he screamed. “Moony, we switched! Check the Map, Moony, he’s here! It’ll prove it! He got away, he’s not dead! It was him, Moony, look at the Map! Gryffindor Tower, that’s where you'll find Worm—”

The cocoon was continuing to spin and a coil rose up over Black’s mouth, muffling his words. Harry hardly cared; all he could hear were his mother’s screams echoing plaintively in his head, although the roar of his own anguished rage nearly drowned her out. He had been so close, why hadn’t he acted sooner? He could have avenged his parents himself, but now—now the Ministry would come and take Black away again and Harry wouldn’t even get to see the Dementors visit their justice on him. He cast a seething glare at both Black and Dumbledore alike, furious at the headmaster for spoiling everything.

Lupin, however, reacted very strongly to Black’s mad ranting. His lined face went white and he turned on his heel and bolted as though a thousand grindylows were on his heels. Harry dully watched him go, too sullen to be curious about his Defense Against the Dark Arts professor’s sudden cowardice.

Everyone else was clustering around either Astoria or the prisoner. Daphne was on the floor with her arms around her sister, sobbing. Pansy was sitting next to her, trying to convince them both to get up off the cold flagstones, while Millicent awkwardly leaned across them all to pat Daphne’s hair. Astoria’s voice could just barely be heard from within her sister’s encircling arms, weakly insisting that she was fine.

Black was nearly as hidden: only the top of head could still be seen above the layers and layers of coiled ropes. His eyes rolled madly and the nest of ropes roiled and wobbled as though he was struggling ferociously inside them but he was wrapped-up as securely as if he’d been swallowed by a giant snake. Professor McGonagall stood on guard next to him anyway, her gaze sharp and her wand held at the ready.

Dumbledore, his wand still attached to the lengths of conjured rope, stepped to her side and said quietly, “We shall lock him in Filius’s office until the Ministry can be contacted. It should be quite secure thanks to all those Charms he is forever tinkering with, and more importantly it is far away from—” For a moment his eyes flickered and Harry got the distinct impression that Dumbledore was looking at him, but he must have imagined it because when he turned to meet the headmaster’s gaze he was staring fixedly at Professor McGonagall “—any students,” he finished smoothly.

McGonagall raised her eyebrows. “The Ravenclaws—” she began.

“Should be safe behind their riddle,” Dumbledore interrupted. “I do not believe that Mr. Black ever managed to talk his way around that when he was in school here. I doubt his logical acumen has improved in the intervening years.” He almost sounded sad before adding briskly, “We’ll leave a teacher on guard at the eagle just in case, of course.”

That seemed to be good enough for McGonagall. She nodded sharply then turned to look at the shaken students clustered around Astoria. Sprout was kneeling next to the Greengrass girls but she looked up when McGonagall called her name.

“How are they, Pomona?”

“The lass doesn’t seem hurt,” Professor Spout called back. She sounded like her usual cheerful self but Harry noticed that her ruddy cheeks were ashen. She patted Daphne on the shoulder bracingly; Daphne wailed louder. “Just a bit rattled. I’ll take them along to Poppy, get her to give them both a look-over and maybe a nice Calming Draught.”

“Very good,” agreed McGonagall. “And I suppose someone should fetch Severus from guard duty so he can see to his students. There’s no more need to watch the Willow, anyway.”

“I’ll take care of that as soon as I’ve settled the girls,” Sprout offered.

“Thank you, Pomona.” McGonagall eyed Black again. “That leaves me free to keep an eye on you, then. Lucky lad,” she growled.

Dumbledore stepped forward to address the cluster of students. “I would like everyone else to return to their common rooms as quickly as possible.” His voice was mild but the steely blue gaze he turned on them was anything but. Harry swallowed hard and stepped backwards to rejoin the other students. At some point his wand had fallen to hang limply at his side again, although he couldn’t remember making the conscious decision to lower it. “You’re all running a bit late for curfew,” Dumbledore continued amiably, “but I think we can overlook that this once under the circumstances, so long as no one dawdles. I will not ask you to keep what you have witnessed to yourselves,” he added with a gentle smile, “since I try not to ask the impossible when I can help it, but I would very much appreciate it if you could restrain yourself to adding only the bare minimum of sensational embellishments until tomorrow. The crisis is over, and I would like everyone to be able to get a good night’s sleep. You all have classes tomorrow, after all.” He gave them another twinkling smile, gave Harry another half-imagined quick little glance, and turned away with a nod.

Knowing a dismissal when they heard one, the Slytherins and Hufflepuffs slowly moved away. Few of them could resist craning their heads to peer back at Black being dragged up the hallway by Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall, or at Astoria and Daphne being led off toward the hospital by Professor Sprout. Pansy followed at their heels, arguing insistently that Daphne wasn’t going anywhere without her. Sprout tried to shoo her off but she wasn’t having an easy time of it.

Harry found himself among the last loiterers, facing the wide-eyed gazes of Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle as they stood watching him. He didn’t know what to say to them so he shrugged.

“What were you thinking?” Draco asked after a moment.

Harry shrugged again. “Dunno,” he said. “Guess I wasn’t, really.” He couldn’t hear his mother screaming anymore but he knew he would as soon as he closed his eyes to sleep. The air tasted sour on his tongue.

“That’s no good,” Goyle told him sincerely. “You should always think ‘fore you do things.”

Draco raised both his eyebrows incredulously and stared at Goyle. Crabbe nodded thoughtfully, as though he’d never considered the idea before but could see that it had merit. Despite the fizzing tangle of rage and disappointment sitting heavily in his belly Harry managed a strained little laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he told Goyle. “Thanks.”

Harry took one last look behind him. He was in time to see Sirius Black, eyes still rolling madly, being pulled around the corner in his cocoon of conjured rope. Then he was gone.

With a sigh of disappointment, Harry shoved his wand back into his pocket. “Come on,” he told his friends. They fell into step behind the rest of the crowd. Draco kept darting furtive little concerned looks at him but Harry pretended not to see. He couldn’t help noticing the other Slytherins and Hufflepuffs who turned around periodically, their mouths open as though they wanted to talk to Harry, but each time Draco shook his head pointedly and Goyle or Crabbe glowered at them until they turned around again.

Harry was grateful. He didn’t want to talk to anyone right now.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a little [doodle](http://tathrin.deviantart.com/art/I-ve-Got-a-Knife-Though-640755942) for this chapter:  
> 


	16. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs

Harry paused at a row of windows to look out across the grounds. Evening was on the verge of giving way to night and the trees of the Forbidden Forest were black shadows against the sky. There was no sign of dementors gathering yet, but Harry knew they would come soon. He wished he had argued when Dumbledore sent him away. If anyone had the right to be there when Sirius Black got the Dementor’s Kiss, wasn’t it he, Harry?

He lingered at the window for another minute, then made himself run to catch up with his friends. The four of them had fallen a little behind the others, partly because Harry was dragging his feet and partly because Crabbe and Goyle’s glares had inspired everyone else to walk faster. Draco was too lost in thought to make them pick up the pace. “So Sirius Black was the Grim all along,” he mused aloud as they turned the corner toward the main staircase. “I suppose that explains everything, really,” he said, and paused. “Except….” Draco trailed off, brow furrowed uncertainly.

“But if it weren’t really the Grim,” Crabbe said after a while, when it became clear that Draco was done speaking, “then how come Pr’fessor Trelawney saw it in Potter’s tea and stuff?”

“Just ‘cause it weren’t the Grim don’t mean it wasn’t trying to kill him,” Goyle retorted, as though Crabbe was being uncommonly thick. “It def’nitely was. Just not the way ev’body thought.”

“Oh,” said Crabbe. He thought about this. “Guess so,” he allowed at last. “But does that mean Trelawney was actually right about stuff?”

“Guess so,” said Goyle with a shrug.

“But then…” Crabbe scrunched-up his face with the effort of thought. “Does that mean she was right ‘bout that thing she said ‘bout the Dark Lord?”

“Forget about the Dark Lord!” Draco said shrilly, shoving Crabbe. He didn’t move, but he did fall silent. “The important thing is that Sirius Black has been captured, right?”

“Right,” said Goyle. Crabbe grunted his own agreement.

Harry said nothing.

“Harry?” Draco asked. He sounded worried.

“Huh?” Harry looked up, trying to shake-off thoughts of Sirius Black screaming as a looming figure leaned toward him. In Harry’s imagination the unhooded dementor looked like the creature from a silent, black-and-white old vampire movie he had seen on the Dursley’s television late one night: all puffy lips and toothpick fangs. He shook off the fantasy and blinked at his friend. “What, sorry, did you say something?” he asked.

“Yes,” Draco said, exasperated. “I was just talking about how Trelawney—”

“I was thinking about Sirius Black being Kissed,” Harry interrupted, “and how I ought to get to see it.”

That silenced everyone, but only for a moment.

“So go,” Crabbe said, with a shrug.

“I don’t think they’ll let me in,” Harry said. He rolled his eyes. Sometimes Crabbe and Goyle got on his nerves with how thick they were. “Besides, we’re supposed to be heading back to our common rooms ‘without dawdling,’ didn’t you hear Dumbledore?” he spat.

“Well don’t ask for permission then,” Draco retorted. “You have an Invisibility Cloak, after all.”

“What?” Now it was Harry’s turn to feel stupid.

“Get your cloak and sneak up there. Even if we can’t find a way to slip inside before the dementors get there, we’ll be able to see him when they drag him out.” Draco shrugged. “That’s got to be better than nothing, right?”

“Yeah.” Harry nodded slowly, hope kindling again in his heart. “Yeah, that would be brilliant. Almost as good as—wait.” He frowned. “Did you say _we?”_

“Of course,” replied Draco. He tossed his head loftily. “You can’t think I’d let you do something that interesting without me. Besides, Sirius Black _is_ my second-cousin,” he added in a very after-the-fact manner. “I think I’m entitled to be there just as much as you are.”

Harry wasn’t going to argue. He grinned. “Excellent,” he said. “Let’s hurry then—”

He was stopped from taking off at a dead sprint by Draco’s hand on his arm.

“Don’t run!” Draco hissed. “Do you want to look like you’re up to something?”

Harry sighed. “Well let’s at least catch up with everyone else, then!” he demanded. He couldn’t deny Draco had a point, but he didn’t have to like it.

“I wanna come too,” Crabbe spoke up as they picked up their pace to a quick trot.

“Me too!” Goyle added, puffing.

“Well you can’t,” Draco told them flatly, before Harry could find a way to phrase it more delicately. “We’ve only got one Invisibility Cloak and it won’t fit all of us. Besides, someone has to stay behind and cover for Harry and I, in case any prefects or teachers come around to make sure that everyone’s accounted for before they let the dementors in. You can close our bedcurtains and say that we were tired-out from all the excitement so we went to sleep early, right?”

He made both Crabbe and Goyle repeat his instructions twice, to make sure they understood what they were supposed to do. Harry was continuously amazed at how readily they took Draco’s orders but while Crabbe sighed gustily at being denied the treat of seeing the Dementor’s Kiss in action, he didn’t say anything in protest.

“I promise we’ll tell you all about it as soon as we’re back,” Harry assured them.

“Good,” said Goyle. “But don’t make it sound all mushy, okay?”

Harry and Draco exchanged glances. Harry wondered if they should bother trying to explain to Goyle that a Dementor’s Kiss wasn’t the sort of embrace that one called “mushy,” but before he could frame the words to do so they heard a sudden clatter behind them, as though someone had dropped a whole stack of books at once.

Everybody froze, the rest of the Slytherins and Hufflepuffs turning back to look too. They had been on the brink of splitting up to head to their disparate common rooms but now they edged back together nervously. “Now what?” moaned Justin Finch-Fletchley. He was hanging off one of Ernie Macmillan’s arms while Hannah Abbott clutched the other. Everyone else wavered uncertainly, torn between fleeing to their common rooms or investigating the source of the noise.

A voice raised in an angry shout made up Harry’s mind for him. “That’s Professor Lupin!” he cried, and raced down the hallway toward the sound. Other footfalls joined his. Harry glanced back to make sure his friends were among those following; they were, along with at least half of the other Slytherins and Hufflepuffs. Harry wondered if curiosity had won over fear or if they followed him because they were too scared to risk being left alone.

They could hear Lupin before they reached him: “Where is it?” he was screaming, over and over. “Where is it? You keep everything you ever confiscate, you jealous old fool, I know you do, so don’t bother lying to me! Where did you put it?”

Harry turned the corner and stopped dead at the sight before him. He gaped, slack-jawed, through the open door of Mr. Filch’s office. It was a small, dingy room lit by a solitary oil lamp hanging from the ceiling. It didn’t have any windows but was rather lined with wooden filing cabinets. Right now those cabinets were being torn apart by Professor Lupin. Filch was pressed up against the wall, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open dumbly. He had Mrs. Norris clutched to his chest. The cat didn’t dare hiss but huddled down, her face buried in Filch’s robes.

As for Lupin, he looked angrier than Harry had ever seen him. His gray-streaked brown hair hung around his face in disarray giving him a wild, almost primal look. He upended another drawer with a waterfall of parchment and folders and started to swear as he bent down to ransack the contents. He didn’t stop for a long time.

Harry was amazed that anyone, let alone the easy-going, academic Professor Lupin, knew so much colorful language. He wasn’t the only one. “Wow,” said Draco in a soft voice.

Lupin looked up, saw them watching him, and paled. “Get back to your common room right now,” he ordered, “all of you!”

Something clicked into place in Harry’s head and he took a gamble: “Are you looking for the Marauder’s Map, professor?” he asked.

Draco gaped at Harry, startled, but that was nothing compared to Lupin’s reaction. He rocked back on his heels as if slapped, then lunged out of the office. Forgetting all about Filch, Lupin grabbed Harry by the arm and shook him roughly. “How do you know about that?” he gasped.

“I found it,” Harry replied evasively. “Is that really what you’re after? Why? Why does Sirius Black know about it, and why did he tell you to check it? Check it for what—and why are you doing what he told you?”

Harry didn’t know where this sudden surge of boldness had come from. Maybe it had been the sight of Sirius Black, wrapped up like a Christmas present, being taken away from him forever. He felt reckless, speaking to a teacher like this, but something about it felt right too.

Lupin stared at him, his eyes flickering first to one side and then the other as though looking for an escape, or maybe just checking to make sure that Harry’s friends and the gathered onlookers weren’t going to join the conversation too.

Suddenly he seemed to deflate, some of the manic energy that had gripped him in Filch’s office dissipating, although his hand on Harry’s arm did not loosen. “I made it,” he explained. “Some of my friends and I, when we were at school. Your father was one of them.” He hesitated but Harry hardly noticed. A strange feeling was welling up inside him at Lupin’s mention of his father.

“My dad made the Map?” he whispered. Lupin nodded. “What map?” Millicent asked; Harry ignored her. That made two things, then, two things that had been his father’s that were now his: the Cloak and the Map. Harry felt warm and fizzy again, but it wasn’t like the rage and disappointment that had gripped him when Dumbledore took Sirius Black away. This heat was different, almost comforting.

Lupin didn’t seem to notice; he was still talking, explaining hesitantly, as though he was choosing his words with great care. “The Map, as I’m sure you’ve figured out by now, shows more than just the castle. It shows who is in the castle, and on the grounds as well. And it can’t be fooled. At least not by any means of magic that I’m aware of.” He paused again, rubbing his chin.

“You made that?” Draco asked.

Lupin looked at him as if he had forgotten he existed. “Along with Harry’s father and...and some others, yes.” He frowned unhappily. “I’m afraid we broke a few hundred school rules in the process, but...we were young and foolish.” He shrugged. “I’m not proud of it,” he added, and Harry knew he was lying.

Draco opened his mouth to ask something else but Lupin hurried on, talking loudly enough to drown-out his question: “At any rate, if one were to be—er—looking for someone, someone within the grounds of Hogwarts, there would be no better tool to use than that map. Harry, this is vitally important. If you have the Marauder’s Map I need to see it. Right away. This is a matter of life—”

He stiffened. Then his limbs began to shake. His grip on Harry’s arm went rigid. Harry tried to pull away and couldn’t. “Ouch, professor, you’re hurting me,” Harry complained. Lupin didn’t seem to hear him although his eyes were fixed on Harry. Lupin’s face was white in the glow of moonlight from the window beside him, and his eyes were wide with terror.

Harry’s first thought was that a dementor had gotten lost on its way to Sirius Black and was coming up behind him. He turned to look but saw only confused students staring back at him. Then there was a terrible snarling noise and Harry turned back around.

Lupin’s head was lengthening. So was his body. His shoulders were hunching. Hair was sprouting visibly on his face and hands, which were curling into clawed paws. Harry wasn’t sure if he managed to pull himself free or if Lupin let him go, but suddenly he was falling backwards, tripping over his own feet to land on the floor amidst several pairs of legs. Hannah Abbott was screaming; she wasn’t the only one.

Harry shoved someone aside and looked for Professor Lupin. He was gone. In his place was a wolf—a _werewolf_.

The werewolf stared at the students. No one was screaming now; none of them even dared to breathe although somebody was whimpering. The wolf whimpered too and crouched down, looking like a dog that had just been kicked. It shook its head, turned around, and ran away with its tail between its legs. As soon as the sound of claws scrabbling on the flagstones faded everyone burst out talking all at once:

“Professor Lupin is a werewolf?”

“How long has he been one?”

“Do you think he got bit here?”

“There are werewolves in the Forbidden Forest, aren’t there?”

“Do you think he was trying to catch one to bring to class, and it got him?”

“Should we tell a teacher?”

“He _is_ a teacher!”

“Well not right now he isn’t!”

“Why do you think he ran away? Aren’t werewolves vicious?”

“I don’t know, but I’m not waiting around here to find out!”

General consensus seemed to agree with Ernie; without another word of discussion everyone turned and sprinted for their common rooms—everyone except for Harry and his friends.

Goyle hauled him to his feet. “You okay?” he asked. He didn’t seem particularly shaken to learn that Professor Lupin was a werewolf but then, nobody had yet told him he ought to be.

“Fine,” Harry said absently, staring down the hallway where Professor Lupin had disappeared.

A heavy, slamming sound made him jump. He turned to see the door to Filch’s office shut tight. There was a sharp, metallic sound like someone throwing a bolt. Harry frowned but was quickly distracted by Goyle’s next question:

“So what do we do now?”

Harry didn’t have to think about it: “We go get the cloak,” he said.

“You can’t possibly mean to still try and sneak up to Flitwick’s office!” Draco exclaimed. “Are you mental? There’s a werewolf running around the castle! We ought to get back to the dungeon as fast as we can and stay there until sunrise!”

“Sirius Black will be Kissed by sunrise,” Harry said flatly. “I’m not going to miss my chance because I’m hiding in the dungeon. Besides,” he added cajolingly, “the werewolf was clearly more frightened of us than we were of it.” _Well_ , he added silently in his head as he took in the sight of Draco’s bloodless cheeks, dilated pupils, and trembling fingers, _more scared of us than_ I _was of it, anyway_. “You don’t have to come,” he said, “but I’m going.”

Draco looked torn. “Well,” he stammered, twisting the sleeves of his robes, “well—let’s go get the cloak anyway, and then I’ll decide. Right?”

“Fine,” said Harry, not wanting to waste any more time arguing. He led the way to their common room at a run. At least thanks to the werewolf they now had a good excuse for why they were running if anyone asked.

The dungeon was in an uproar when they burst in: everyone was talking about Professor Lupin being a werewolf. Wild rumors about how and when he had gotten bit were already flying. Harry ignored them all and bolted down the stairs to his dormitory. He grabbed his father’s cloak and turned to find Draco standing in the doorway.

“Well?” Harry asked.

Draco hesitated, visibly wavering, then heaved a deep breath. “I’m coming with you,” he said. His voice was pitched high from nerves and his face was even paler than usual, but Harry didn’t try to talk him out of it. He just nodded and led the way out of the common room.

Fortunately everyone was so busy sharing stories about werewolves that no one noticed them leaving. Not even the prefects were watching to make sure no one broke curfew. Lupin had provided such an excellent distraction that there was no need for Harry to stage one of his own. That was good, because he had a feeling they were running out of time.

He threw the cloak over his and Draco’s heads as soon as the stones closed behind him, and they set off back up the stairs at a fast walk. The slow pace dragged at Harry, who worried that the dementors would come and go before they could get all the way to Flitwick’s office, but they didn’t dare run in the cloak. There was too much of a chance they would be seen. Draco’s constant fidgeting got on Harry’s nerves too; he was skittish, jumping at every sound, as though expecting the werewolf to come charging at them out of the darkness. He walked so close to Harry that he kept stepping on his heels. Harry told himself that it would take too much time to convince Draco to head back to the common room, and he would probably refuse to go by himself, which would force Harry to waste even more time walking him there. He ground his teeth and tried to be patient, but he couldn’t help wishing that he was doing this alone. Knowing that Draco probably agreed didn’t make him feel any better.

They were halfway to the main staircase before they realized that the entrance hall wasn’t empty. The wide double-doors were open and Professor Dumbledore stood in the middle of them, arguing with someone on the steps outside.

Harry froze, remembering that Dumbledore didn’t seem to be fooled by invisibility cloaks. “Come on!” Draco hissed in his ear, but Harry refused to budge. Only when he realized that with his back to the stairs there was no way Dumbledore could know that they were there did he move; it wasn’t like Dumbledore had eyes in the back of his head, after all.

“Quietly,” he whispered to Draco, and they tiptoed past as carefully as they could.

Harry couldn’t resist looking to see who Dumbledore was talking to and almost tripped over his own feet when he saw Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic. Then he noticed how cold it was and did trip. Fortunately Draco caught him before he could fall and dislodge the cloak; he heaved Harry back to his feet and they stood there, shivering, stupefied by the sight of the two dementors flanking Fudge.

Harry swayed, but they were far enough away that he couldn’t hear his mother yet; just feel the icy, creeping chill of their presence. He inched backwards, Draco readily following. Harry started paying attention to what Dumbledore was saying:

“And as I have told you, Cornelius, I will not have dementors in my school. I do not approve of their use and I never have. There was little I could do to stop you stationing them around Hogwarts for the ‘protection’ of the students, but there is equally little that you can do to compel me to allow them to pass this threshold.”

Fudge looked furious. The red of his cheeks contrasted unpleasantly with his lime green bowler hat. “Dammit man, this is no time to think about mere scruples,” he blustered. “You’ve got Sirius Black locked up in there!”

Dumbledore nodded. Harry couldn’t see his face, but his voice was as calm as ever. “And here he shall remain while you go and fetch a few Aurors to escort him off the premises. What you do to him once he has passed these doors I have no say in, but what happens within these walls is still a matter for me to decide.”

Fudge actually stamped his foot. “I haven’t got any Aurors to fetch!” he protested. “It’s nearly ten at night. Those who aren’t home in their beds are already on assignment—most of them hunting for Sirius Black!”

“Well, as we have found him, you may as well pull them off that task now,” Dumbledore replied cheerfully. “It shouldn’t take that long to gather a few, and Black will be here waiting whenever they are ready.”

“It’ll take at least half an hour, bare minimum!” Fudge said. “I have to go all the way back to London, explain the situation to Scrimgeour—mayhap drag him out of bed first—get in touch with someone who can get up here in a hurry, make sure we’ve got enough forces assembled to keep Black in line until we can get him to the dementors….It’ll probably be closer to two, three hours until all that’s done!”

“Then while I am perfectly happy to continue this conversation as long as you wish, Minister, I will certainly understand if you would rather be on your way at once. You do have quite a lot to do, it sounds like.” From the tone of Dumbledore’s voice, Harry would have bet he was smiling.

Fudge sputtered like a kettle left on the hob too long. Finally he flung up his hands, turned on his heel, and stomped back down the steps. He muttered a lot of things about madness and poppycock and bloody headmasters who thought they owned the bloody world, but Harry and Draco had edged their way back to the main staircase by now, and could only make out half the words. To Harry’s relief the dementors flowed away in Fudge’s wake; he felt better almost as soon as they turned their backs.

Dumbledore stepped back inside and shut the doors quickly. He waved a hand through the air and there was a sound like clicking locks. Professors McGonagall and Snape came hurrying around the corner and Harry froze, but the three teachers bent close in conversation without once glancing in his direction.

“Well it won’t take him long to get back here,” Dumbledore said, “and I wouldn’t care to wager as to whether it will be with whatever Aurors he can roust or with a letter from the school governors demanding that I let his dementors in. There are a number of things I would like to learn before that happens. Minerva, you will come with me to Professor Lupin’s office and we will see what he can tell us.”

“Not much I expect, given his current state,” McGonagall replied crisply.

“Nonetheless,” said Dumbledore, “we shall see what can be done with simple questions that can be replied to with a nod or a bark. Severus, I would like you to remain on guard against the Minister’s return. I know you can handle dementors without losing your head and I don’t think there is a single Auror working for Fudge right now that can intimidate you. Stall them as long as you can without actually breaking any laws, will you?” he asked lightly.

“Don’t you think I ought to come with you, headmaster?” Snape protested quickly.

For the first time Harry noticed that Snape didn’t seem to be his usual stoic self. His sallow face was flushed and even from this distance his eyes glittered like black diamonds burning through the curtain of his hair. His hands were curled into fists against his side and he seemed to be trembling slightly.

“No,” Dumbledore said, his voice hard. “I think you had best do as I’ve said.”

For a long moment no one moved. “Really!” McGonagall huffed under her breath, but neither wizard seemed to hear her. Finally Snape turned on his heel and stalked away without another word. Dumbledore sighed, shook his head, and gestured for McGonagall to precede him to the stairs.

Draco grabbed Harry’s shoulder and dragged him down behind the staircase just in time. They crouched there, hidden from even Dumbledore’s view—Harry hoped—by the thick marble banister as well as the Invisibility Cloak. Brisk footsteps trotted past and Harry risked easing his head up over the side so he could see. Two sets of robes—one green and one blue—disappeared up the staircase. Harry counted to ten to make sure they were really gone, then sighed with relief and stood up.

“Good thinking,” he told Draco in a whisper.

“Sorry,” Draco replied. “I don’t know why I did that. It’s not like they could see us—”

“Actually they maybe could,” Harry interrupted. “Or at least, Dumbledore could have.” Then he had to explain what Dumbledore had told him during his first year at Hogwarts, when Harry had found the Mirror of Erised. He did that in a low voice as they cautiously edged their way up the stairs. Draco was inclined to be skeptical of Dumbledore’s talents, but since arguing meant admitting that he had done something foolish, for once he made no protest.

There was no one waiting for them at the top of the stairs so they risked moving faster. Dumbledore’s argument with Fudge had filled them both with a greater sense of urgency and they walked fast enough now to make the cloak flap around their ankles. Fortunately the only eyes there to see them were the portraits on the walls, and most of those were dozing.

By the time they reached the fifth floor they were running, hardly caring that their legs were visible under the cloak as it streamed out behind them. The corridors were deserted but Harry felt like Fudge’s dementors were nipping at his heels. He thought about pulling out the Marauder’s Map to check whether the Minister had returned yet, but he didn’t want to waste the time. They ran west, down a hallway dappled with moonlight, and pelted up a spiraling staircase. Harry hesitated at the top but Draco grabbed his arm and tugged him to the left. “Come on!” he hissed.

“Are you sure we’re going the right way?” Harry asked.

“Of course.” Since Harry had long suspected that Draco spent more time talking to their teachers outside of class than he liked to let on, he decided to be quiet and follow his friend’s lead.

In a matter of moments this decision was proved to be a good one: they turned a corner and saw Flitwick standing guard outside a carved wooden door. Harry swore and they ducked back, out of sight, quickly tugging the Invisibility Cloak back into place. For several minutes they didn’t move at all, waiting to see if they had been noticed, but Flitwick didn’t move.

“Now what?” Draco whispered.

Harry thought fast. He should have expected that the office would be guarded. Part of him wanted to just tear the cloak off and stride out there, demand that Flitwick let him in so he could face Sirius Black like he deserved. He doubted that Professor Flitwick would see things his way, though. He needed to think of something less reckless—at least a little bit.

“We’ll Stun him,” he decided, remembering how they had once dealt with Mr. Filch.

“Are you mental?” Draco whispered. “Flitwick used to be a Dueling Champion!”

“Well then we won’t duel him,” Harry retorted. “You sneak past with the cloak and make a noise down the other end of the hallway so he goes to investigate, and I’ll Stupefy him from behind.”

“No way,” said Draco, “that’s too risky.”

“Fine,” Harry said, “then I’ll sneak past him with the cloak and make a noise and _you_ can Stun him.”

Draco started to argue that that wasn’t what he’d meant, but Harry pulled the cloak away and stepped out into the hallway. There wasn’t anything Draco could do to stop him without exposing himself to Flitwick’s view. Harry sidled down the hallway, holding his breath as he crept past Flitwick, then looked around for something that he could use as a distraction.

For once, he would have been happy to see Peeves the Poltergeist. Even the niffler he had given back to Hagrid would have come in handy. Instead he made-do with a heavy tapestry and a Cutting Charm. “Diffindo,” he whispered, as quietly as he could. Harry aimed the spell carefully, keeping it small so that he only cut partway through each of the thick cords that held the tapestry to the wall. Then he backed away and let gravity do the rest.

For a moment it seemed like nothing was going to happen and Harry had just started to raise his wand again when, with a sound like velcro parting, one of the cords pulled apart. The tapestry slung down slantwise. Harry held his breath and watched Professor Flitwick as the other cords unbraided one by one under the skewed weight. When the third cord went, Flitwick looked up. He frowned, peering down the dim corridor, and Harry had to fight the urge to duck out of sight.

He stared over Flitwick’s shoulder at the corner where he’d left Draco. Another cord went; Flitwick took a few steps forward and leaned out further into the hallway, his small face uncertain.

“Is someone there?” he asked in his squeaky voice. “Peeves, you know the headmaster told you not to interfere with things up here tonight. He’ll be very displeased if that’s you.”

The tapestry was only dangling by one cord, the last, which Harry had left almost intact. It started to fray around the edges of the cut he’d made. Harry frowned at the empty hallway behind Flitwick, wondering what Draco was waiting for.

Then the tapestry fell with a soft _thump_. Flitwick jumped and so did Harry. The Charms professor took a few steps forward, wand upraised, but stopped when he saw the crumpled tapestry on the floor. His sharp eyes darted from the tapestry to the severed cords, then back down to the floor, then all around the hallway. He peered suspiciously into the darkness, looking right through Harry as if he wasn’t there, then turned to go back to the door.

Harry grunted with annoyance and flung the cloak out of his way. “STUPEFY!” he cried, and a jet of red light caught Flitwick mid-turn. It deflected off a Shield Charm that Flitwick had conjured so fast that Harry hadn’t even seen his wand move. He gaped.

“Harry Potter?” Flitwick exclaimed, surprise writ large across his small face.

“STUPEFY!”

That jet of light came from Draco, lunging around the corner, and it took Flitwick in the back. He toppled over, still looking surprised, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief. “What took you so long?” he asked Draco, annoyed, as they met beside the Stunned teacher.

Draco shrugged evasively. “I was waiting until I was sure he was distracted,” he said. “Anyway it worked, didn’t it?”

Harry grumbled but couldn’t argue. “Let’s find somewhere to stash him,” he suggested, nodding at Flitwick. “If anyone sees him just lying here like this, we’ll be in big trouble.”

“Won’t they notice he’s not at his post?” Draco asked.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, pulling Flitwick down the hallway by his ankles, “but not knowing where he’s gone or why he isn’t there is a lot less suspicious-looking than finding him just lying there after he’s clearly been attacked.”

Draco had to admit that Harry had a point. He helped wrap the Stunned Charms professor in the tapestry that Harry had sliced off the wall and then they wedged him into the corner next to a suit of armor. With luck no one would look too closely and notice the lump of heavy material next to the metal knight. Harry was glad that it had been Flitwick assigned to guard the door; anyone else would have been much harder to hide, and to carry.

He had to force himself to pay attention to what he was doing and not rush through the task slapdash. Now that he was so close to confronting Black, it was hard to think about anything else. His heart was beating fast and his veins seemed to be filled with electricity.

To Harry’s surprise the door opened to a simple Alohamora Charm. He supposed that with Black unarmed and Flitwick outside to guard the door, no one had thought there was any need to bother with more complex enchantments. Without his wand, Black wouldn’t have been able to undo even this one—although, Harry remembered suddenly, he had been able to transform from a dog to a man without a wand, and ostensibly the other way around too…

That put him on guard enough that he decided they should get under the Invisibility Cloak again. Draco complained but only half-heartedly; Harry had a feeling he was just protesting for show.

Harry made sure they were both well-hidden, then gently eased the door open. They sidled in together and let the door slide closed again, although Draco stopped it before it could click shut. It occurred to Harry that it might be a lot harder to unlock the door from the inside and he was glad that his friend was thinking ahead; it would have been bad if they had been trapped in here too, although it was hard to force himself to care about that right now. It was hard to think of anything beyond confronting Sirius Black.

He looked around the room, his fingers sweaty where they gripped his wand. At first he didn’t notice Black; he was sitting with his head bowed in a chair in front of the window. The full moon behind him cast his untidy head in silhouette. There was something wrong with Harry’s glasses too: half of the room looked blurry, as though he was seeing it from underwater. When he did notice Black, he hissed with surprise and longing.

Draco’s fingers fastened tightly around Harry’s arm. He barely felt them. “Don’t do anything stupid,” Draco breathed in his ear. “We’re just here to watch, remember?” Harry stared at the man responsible for his parents’ deaths and didn’t reply. He fingered his wand as a hundred different thoughts tumbled through his head.

He didn’t remember deciding to move but suddenly he was walking forward, Draco pulling at him uselessly. His foot scuffed against the stone and Black looked up, his dark eyes bright in his gaunt face, glittering behind their curtain of lank hair.

 “Who’s there?” he asked, voice hoarse. He frowned, gaze narrowing on the almost closed door, looking right through where Harry and Draco stood, frozen and invisible. “It’s not...Harry?” Black asked, his voice little more than a whisper. “Is that you? In James’s cloak?”

A flash of rage surged through Harry and he threw the Invisibilty Cloak off over his head. His wand snapped up, almost of its own accord, to point at Black’s face. “How dare you,” he started to say, but Black’s haggard features broke into a grin.

“Look at you,” Black said, a hungry look on his face as he drank in the sight of his target, “just like your dad, popping up out of nowhere....I’d almost swear I’m looking at him again. If there’s a sight to take back to Azkaban, it’s that....”

“You’re not going back to Azkaban,” Harry snarled, “not the way you left anyway. I heard Fudge telling Dumbledore, they’ve decided you’re too dangerous. They can’t risk you getting out again.” Harry took another step forward with every word, cloak bunched angrily in his fist, until he was almost within arms-reach of Sirius Black. He didn’t notice Draco, clinging nervously to the edge of the cloak as Harry pulled away. Harry could see nothing but the shadowed depths of Sirius Black’s eyes. “They’re going to have the dementors give you the Kiss,” he said, cold satisfaction filling his heart at the sudden look of panic on Black’s face.

“No,” he said, “no, they can’t, not when he’s so close to you, not when I’m so close to finally….”

“Killing me?” Harry interrupted with a sneer. “You botched your chance,” he said, “too bad. You should have figured out who you were hunting better, then you wouldn’t have wasted your time in Gryffindor Tower.” He laughed, although nothing was funny.

“I don’t want to kill you,” Black said, his voice little more than a croak. Harry would have had a hard time hearing him if he wasn’t standing so close. “I want to save you.”

“You _are_ mental,” Harry said, the only thing he could say to that.

“Told you so,” Draco muttered.

Black seemed to notice the other boy for the first time and started, as though he had thought Harry had come alone. “But you—you’re Narcissa’s boy, aren’t you?” His eyes raked across Draco’s face. “What are you doing here with Harry?”

“He’s my friend,” Harry said, confused by the strength of Black’s reaction to the sight of his second cousin. Draco looked like he wasn’t pleased to have been recognized and he drew himself up to his full height so he could treat Black to his haughtiest glower.

Black turned to Harry. “You’re in danger,” he said.

“I know,” said Harry. He kept his wand pointed between Black’s gray eyes. “There’s a crazy murderer trying to kill me.”

“Not from me.” Black made a dismissive gesture. “From Peter Pettigrew.”

“Peter Pettigrew?” Harry repeated. “The fellow you killed? Yeah, sure.” He rolled his eyes. This was disappointing; he had known that Sirius Black was mad, but he had expected someone who was crazed with evil, not merely deranged.

“I didn’t kill him!” Black said. “I tried to, but he got away from me.”

“And what, he’s been in hiding for twelve years?” Draco sneered.

“Yes!” Black snapped. He glowered at Draco, then confusion overtook his anger. “Why are you here?” he asked again. “You _are_ the Malfoy boy, aren’t you? Your dad’s eyes, your mum’s nose—I’d recognize that sickly, snobby expression anywhere.”

“Yes,” Draco said with an answering glare, offended. “I’m Draco Malfoy. What’s it to you?”

Black’s emaciated face was a study in suspicion. “What’s a Malfoy doing hanging around with Harry Potter?”

“Harry told you, we’re friends.”

Black shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense,” he muttered. Then his eyes fixed on Draco again. “Unless your dad sent you after him….”

Draco’s pale cheeks went pink. “Listen,” he said, “I don’t know what you think you know, but you’re crazy. You aren’t—”

“Bellatrix’s cell was just down the hall from mine,” Black interrupted suddenly. “Did you know that?” He grinned. It was an unpleasant expression, like a skeleton that had learned how to smile from a dragon. “Dear old Bella. She misses her littlest sister quite a lot, you know,” Black cackled.

Draco fell silent, his eyes wide.

Harry stepped forward, making Black focus on him again. “What’s it to you who I’m friends with?” he demanded. “What, are you upset that you might have accidentally hurt your cousin when you were coming after me, or—”

“I wasn’t after you!” Black bellowed. “I came here to protect you! And _he’s_ dangerous.” He pointed to Draco with one wizened, clawlike hand. Draco backed up, even though Black hadn’t risen from his seat. He seemed to be holding himself to the chair with his other hand, as though afraid that if he stood he might startled Harry and Draco into running—or attacking.

Harry snorted. “What is this, some ploy to get me alone? You’re pathetic.”

Black stared at him, looking wounded. “I’m trying to save your life,” he mumbled.

“From my best friend? Gee thanks,” said Harry. Then his eyes narrowed. “Just because _you_ betrayed my dad doesn’t mean that that’s what friends _normally_ do, you know,” he sneered.

Black paled. “That’s not—it didn’t happen like that,” he whined. “I didn’t betray him—not knowingly, at least. I would never.”

“Oh, so you sold him and my mum to You-Know-Who by accident?” Harry retorted. “Well that makes everything all better. I’ll just pop out and tell Dumbledore, and he can have Fudge call the dementors off and send you home, no harm done.” He shook his head, disgust welling up so strong that it almost strangled him. “You’re mental, and you must think I am too if you think I’ll believe a word of this.”

Harry stared at the skeletal madman. He was so overcome by disappointment that it was a struggle to keep his wand raised. His arm felt as heavy as if he held twenty bludgers rather than one small stick. He was beginning to wonder if it was even worth waiting for the dementors to show up. “Maybe we should just go,” he muttered. “This is pointless.”

“No,” Black said, sounding panicky now, “no you have to listen to me, Harry.” He jumped up and Draco scrambled backwards with a yelp; Harry didn’t move, just tightened his grip on his wand. Black raised his hands as if to reach for Harry but the air rippled between them and he stopped as though he had run into a solid wall. Harry risked a glance downward; there was a fine, glittering line in the floor, as though someone had drawn a crude circle around Black with glow-in-the-dark paint. Harry didn’t recognize the spellwork but he didn’t care; something told him that while an unarmed person would find it hard to walk through the barrier, any spell he felt like casting would pass through it just fine. Maybe that was just wishful thinking, but the same strange pressure that had almost overwhelmed him when Black had been captured was starting to build in his veins again and he was sure that he could get the magic to do what he wanted without having to know the right words or gestures.

“I don’t have to do anything,” Harry said coldly, raising his gaze again to meet Black’s eyes. “I don’t even have to kill you if I don’t want to. I can just stand here and watch the dementors.” He paused then added, “Or I can just leave. It’s not like you can stop me.”

Black made a convulsive movement, as though imagining his hands around Harry’s neck. “No,” he moaned, “not when I’m so close…I almost had him, if only you hadn’t run so fast….” He started to pace, frantic, back and forth in the tiny circle that marked the almost invisible boundaries of his prison. It included the office’s one narrow window, but Harry figured that was locked; Black looked skinny enough to be able to slip through otherwise, although he would have found nothing but death eight stories below if he’d tried to escape that way.

“Come on,” Harry said to Draco, turning for the door. “Maybe we can get back to the dungeon before Snape notices we’re missing.”

“Snape?” That caught Black’s attention; he jerked around violently and stared at them. “Severus Snape? What’s he doing here?”

“He’s our Head of House,” Harry said, frowning at Black.

“He’s a teacher?” Black gaped. “And you’re a Slytherin?”

“Sorry you wasted your time trying to get into Gryffindor Tower now?” Draco sneered.

“Explains what you’re doing with him at least, I suppose,” Black muttered, eyeing Draco with distaste. Suddenly Black whirled and faced Harry again. “The rat,” he said. “Bring me the rat and I’ll tell you everything.”

“Tell me what?” Harry said, frowning.

“You have questions, don’t you?” Black’s eyes glittered. “There are things you want to know. I’ll tell you anything you want, if you just bring me that rat.”

“What makes you think I’m interested in anything you have to say?” Harry asked. His heart started to beat faster.

“Aren’t you?” Black’s deep, unfathomable gaze caught Harry’s like a hook. “Isn’t that what you really came here for, answers? Explanations? How I got out of Azkaban? How I got into Hogwarts? Why no one knew I was an Animagus? The story about why your dad trusted me, and why I betrayed him?”

“Maybe,” Harry allowed. “Maybe I just came here to watch the dementors deal with you.”

“If you hurry you can have both,” Black told him.

Harry waved a dismissive hand. “There’s no time. Fudge will be here with the Aurors any minute.”

“Better run then,” Black said, “because I’m not saying anything until you get me that rat. And don’t think you can fool me with any old rodent; I want the one you carried into the school this afternoon. And I’ll know him when I see him, trust me.” He gave Harry a humorless smile then turned and sat himself back in the chair, facing out the window. Harry tried to call him back but Black ignored him, even when Harry shouted. He pounded on the half-visible barrier; it stung his hands, like static off a doorknob in winter. Harry ground his teeth, then turned and stalked toward the door.

“Let’s go,” he growled.

Draco hurried to follow, glancing back over his shoulder nervously. “Back to the dungeons, right?”

“No,” said Harry, as he flung the cloak back over the both of them, “to Gryffindor Tower.”

 

Harry knew that it would be cutting things close to run all the way to Gryffindor Tower and back, even if they could figure out the password to get into their common room and somehow steal Ron Weasley’s rat with no one noticing, but he ignored the sensible part of himself that said they should just stay and wait for the dementors, that there wasn’t anything that Sirius Black could say that would make things better anyway—and he ignored Draco when his friend told him the same things.

“What have we got to lose?” he asked, taking the stairs two at a time.

Draco grumbled but he kept up with Harry; he didn’t have much choice.

“How are we even going to get inside?” he whined.

“We’ll figure that out when we get there,” Harry said. “At least we know where we’re going.”

“Fat lot of good that will do us without their password,” Draco muttered.

Harry didn’t answer. He wondered if the Marauder’s Map would be any help. It had told him how to get into the secret passageway through the one-eyed witch’s statue, after all. And it was the only chance they had, unless they got lucky and some Gryffindor decided to sneak out right when they were trying to get in. Maybe if they made a really loud noise, someone would come out to see what it was….

When Harry saw someone hurrying towards them he almost didn’t believe his eyes. It was Hermione Granger and for once she wasn’t carrying any books, just one bunched-up pillowcase. She peered nervously around a corner then stopped in the middle of the hallway and looked around. “Harry?” she whispered.

Harry stopped dead. Draco tripped over his foot and went sprawling, pulling the cloak off of them as he fell.

“Oh!” Hermione jumped as they appeared out of nowhere.

Harry opened his mouth to offer some explanation, some lie that would convince her to take them back to her common room with them, but she ran forward and shoved the pillowcase into his arms hard enough to make him stumble. Something inside it squirmed.

“Here,” she said. “Now you have to promise—absolutely _promise_ , hear me?—that as soon as all of this is over—and I mean the very _moment_ it’s done with—you will come and find me again and tell me everything, all right? I mean it! That’s the deal!”

“What are you talking about?” Draco scrambled to his feet, balling the cloak up as though if he hid it fast enough Hermione would forget she’d seen it. “What deal? We don’t have time for whatever nonsense—”

 But Harry had peeked inside the pillowcase and seen a brown rat. “Is that Scabbers?” he said.

“Of course it is,” Hermione said, silencing Draco’s protests. “But you have to promise me, all right?” She planted her fists on her hips and scowled at them. Her voice was more shrill than usual. “You come and you tell me everything—and I mean _everything_ , every single last thing—just the moment that you’ve gotten Sirius Black out of the castle, all right?”

Harry’s jaw fell open. Draco made a sputtering sort of sound, like an overheated kettle.

“WHAT?” Harry exclaimed.

“That’s the deal,” Hermione repeated insistently. “You come and tell me everything as soon as you’re done, or the deal is off and I take Scabbers back and find the nearest teacher and tell them what you’re doing, all right?” Her face in the moonlight looked ghostly pale and her bushy mane of hair trembled. “Terrible things will happen if you don’t,” she said. “Terrible things.”

“All right,” said Harry, feeling numb. “We’ll—we’ll come and tell you.”

“Everything!” Hermione insisted.

“Everything!” Harry promised quickly, taking a step backwards. “I promise. Everything. Right after. Yeah.”

“All right.” Hermione looked terribly unhappy. She checked her watch. “It’s ten nineteen now. When you’re done you’ll find me in the common room. Just bang on the portrait frame. I’ll be up studying so I’ll hear you, and I’ll come out, and you will tell me every—”

“Everything,” Harry interrupted, nodding. “Yes, okay, I get it.”

“Because really awful things will happen if you don’t—”

“OKAY!”

Hermione deflated. “Okay,” she said. “Well, good then.” She hesitated, as if she wasn’t sure what to do now that he had agreed.

Feeling dumbfounded, Harry gestured vaguely for Draco to unfold the cloak. He didn’t move; he was staring at Hermione. “But how did you know to—”

“There’s no time,” Harry interrupted him. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, all right?”

“A gift _horse?_ What kind of a stupid—”

“Never mind!” Harry scowled. “Can we please just hurry?”

“Fine, fine.” Draco shook his head and pulled the cloak over both of them. Hermione gasped as they vanished. Harry held the neck of the pillowcase twisted closed with both his hands, determined to give the rat no chance to escape. He didn’t know why this rodent was so important to Sirius Black but if Scabbers was the only chance he had of getting answers, then he wasn’t going to risk losing it.

He only looked back once. Hermione was standing in the middle of the hallway, looking forlorn and worried. She kept checking her watch, although they were so far past curfew now that a few minutes either way wouldn’t make a difference if a prefect found her now. Harry wondered how she had known to bring them Scabbers—then shook the thought off and urged Draco to walk faster. He could worry about Hermione Granger later.

 

Harry threw the cloak off and entered Flitwick’s office at a run. Black spun around to face them, his face white. “Here it is!” Harry said. Draco pushed the door almost closed behind them. “Not so loud!” he hissed.

Harry ignored him. He stomped over to the edge of the line and held out the pillow case. “Well?” he demanded.

“Let me see him,” Black croaked. His eyes were hungry.

Harry rolled his eyes and pulled the rat out. Scabbers writhed in his grip but Harry twisted his fingers tightly into the manky brown fur and held on. “Satisfied?” he asked.

Black nodded, not speaking, his gaze fixed on the rodent.

“Totally barmy,” Draco hissed in Harry’s ear.

Harry agreed but he had other things to think about than Black’s mental state. “Well?” he demanded again.

Black jerked his gaze away from the rat and looked up into Harry’s eyes, then away. “Put him away,” he muttered, “but don’t let him escape.”

Harry stuffed the rat back into the pillowcase. Scabbers squealed. They all ignored him.

For a long moment Black said nothing. His head was bowed, his arms folded across his skinny chest, and he looked like he was barely breathing. Harry was just about to make another demand when he spoke at last:

“I suppose the story should start at the beginning. When we got to Hogwarts. Your father, Remus, me—and Peter Pettigrew. We were all sorted into Gryffindor together. Became friends. Broke a lot of rules together.” He glanced up at Harry briefly, a thin smile on his face. “A lot of rules—”

“He’s a werewolf now,” Draco interrupted smugly. “Professor Lupin, I mean. Did you know?” His sing-song voice was innocent but his smirk was anything but. Harry glared at him for interrupting.

“Of course I knew.” Black said scathingly and Draco’s face fell. “I don’t know how you figured it out—” Draco opened his mouth to explain but Black waved him away dismissively “—but that’s what started everything. We became Animagi so we could accompany him when he transformed. We did it in secret, of course—”

“ _You’re_ an Animagus? An unregistered one?” The disbelief was thick in Draco’s voice, although it explained how Black had been able to turn into a dog without a wand.

Harry shushed his friend. “All four of you?” he asked. “My dad too?”

“Yes, of course. Peter never could have managed it without your dad’s help—mine as well,” he added carelessly. “Peter wasn’t academically talented. Wasn’t much talented in anything, we thought, although we hardly thought about it at the time.” His voice was a bitter sneer, worse even than Draco’s when he talked about Hermione’s grades or the Weasley family. “Turns out he was pretty good at a few things, like finding strong friends and saving his own worthless skin.” Black spat on the floor.

“Hurry it up,” Harry said ruthlessly. “Get to the point.”

Black looked at him and frowned. “I am,” he said. “Or I’m trying to, anyway. It’s hard to explain—”

“Just give me the main points,” Harry said. “We can fill in the details after if we have time.” Reminded that they might be running out, he pulled the Marauder’s Map from his pocket and checked the front door. There was no sign of Fudge and his Aurors.

“Where did you get that?” Black sounded dazed.

“None of your business,” Harry retorted.

“Did Remus give—”

“Just tell me the story!” Harry yelled.

Black ran his hands through his hair. The matted, elbow-length mane was already so tangled that this hardly made a difference. “We joined the Order of the Phoenix after school,” he said, as if that was supposed to mean something to Harry, “all four of us. Your mum, too,” he added, glancing at Harry and away again. “We fought Voldemort—” his eyes flicked to Draco and his lip curled into a sneer above his yellowed teeth “—and his Death Eaters.” Draco flinched; Harry didn’t. He was too focused on what Black was saying to remember that he was supposed to be scared of the Dark Lord’s name.

“It wasn’t a picnic,” Black continued, “but there were some bright spots. Your dad and mum getting married, you being born—but then they had to go into hiding. We got word through Dumbledore’s spies that Voldemort was after your family so we put them behind the best protection we could think of: the Fidelius Charm.”

“I know about that,” Harry said flatly. “You were their Secret Keeper, that’s how you could betray them to You-Know-Who.”

“No,” said Black. “I was supposed to be, but I got _clever_.” He said it like it was the most disgusting word he knew. “That’s how I  betrayed them. I persuaded Lily and James to change to Peter at the last moment, persuaded them to use him as Secret Keeper instead of me….so it’s my fault they’re dead. I as good as killed them, being clever. I thought it was the perfect plan…a bluff….Voldemort would be sure to come after me, would never dream they’d use a weak, talentless thing like Peter.” He laughed bitterly. “Of course, that cuts both ways, doesn’t it? None of us ever suspected that Voldemort would think someone like Peter would make a useful spy, and look where that got us!”

He sank down in the chair again, his shoulders slumping. “The night they died, I’d arranged to check on Peter, make sure he was still safe, but when I arrived at his hiding place, he’d gone. Yet there was no sign of a struggle. It didn’t feel right. I was scared. I set out for your parents’ house straightaway. And when I saw their house, destroyed, and their bodies…I realized what Peter must’ve done…what I’d done….”

His voice broke. He buried his face in his hands.

“I don’t believe you,” Harry said.

Black surged to his feet. “I can prove it,” he said. “Look at the map.”

“What?”

“The Marauder’s Map. Look at it. Look at this room. Read the names of everyone in here.”

“And what will that prove?” Harry said tiredly.

“JUST READ IT!” Black bellowed.

“Fine!” Harry shoved the pillowcase into Draco’s hands and spread the map out on the floor. Black and Draco crouched down, one on either side of the barrier, to peer over his shoulder. “All right,” he said, trailing his finger across the map until he found Flitwick’s office. The little dots inside were clustered so tightly together that it just looked like one big black blob, but when Harry poked them with his wand the banners attached to the dots spread apart enough that he could read the names, so he did so aloud:

“Harry Potter,” he said. “Draco Malfoy, Sirius Black…and Peter Pettigrew.” He looked up at Black. “What?” he said. “How—?”

“The rat,” Black rasped. “That’s Peter. In his Animagus form. That’s him.”

“That impossible,” said Harry.

“That’s nonsense,” said Draco.

“It is not nonsense!” Black lurched to his feet, glowering down at them. “I’ve seen Peter transform a hundred times! I know what he looks like when he’s a rat!”

“And how did you know he was at Hogwarts?” Draco retorted. “This is ridiculous, Harry, he’s making it all up, just trying to stall for time—”

Black put one of his clawlike hands inside his robes and took out a crumpled piece of paper, which he smoothed flat and held out to show them. Harry and Draco scrambled to their feet so they could see what he held.

It was a photograph and it had clearly come out of a wizarding newspaper, because the people in the black-and-white picture were moving. There were nine of them and they were all waving furiously. They were standing in front of a large pyramid and Harry recognized most of them: Plump little Mrs. Weasley; tall, balding Mr. Weasley; their twin sons, Fred and George; Ron, who was in Harry and Draco’s year; Percy the prefect; little Ginny whom he and his friends had saved last year; and two other boys, older ones, who must have been the remaining two Weasley sons. Harry couldn’t remember their names. He saw, when Black jabbed his finger at the spot, that there was a rat sitting on Ron’s shoulder.

“You recognized a rat from twelve years ago in that photo?” Draco scoffed.

“He’s missing a toe,” Black said. “You see that? Middle toe, front paw. The biggest bit of Peter they found was his finger,” he added, when neither Harry nor Draco seemed to take that as proof. “He cut it off just before he faked his death and fled. Look!”

Draco dubiously peered into the pillowcase but Scabbers was squealing and thrashing so badly that he looked back up at Harry with a shrug; he couldn’t tell if the rat was missing any toes.

“How does this prove anything?” Harry asked.

Black snarled, flexed his hands, then took a deep breath. Making a visible effort to bring himself under control, he said tersely, “Why would Peter spend twelve years in hiding as a rat if he _hadn’t_ been the one who betrayed Lily and James? He wasn’t afraid of me,” Black continued, when they didn’t answer. “I was in Azkaban, I wasn’t a threat. He was hiding from Voldemort’s old supporters. I’ve heard things in Azkaban….They all think Peter’s dead, or he’d have to answer to them….I’ve heard them screaming in their sleep. Sounds like they think the double-crosser double-crossed them. Voldemort went to the Potter’s on Peter’s information…and Voldemort met his downfall there. And not all of Voldemort’s supporters ended up in Azkaban, did they?” He glanced at Draco and smiled humorlessly. “There are plenty out here, biding their time, pretending they’ve seen the error of their ways. Aren’t there?”

Draco bristled. “Well, so what?” he said. “What does that prove? Anyway, how come everyone says it was you who betrayed the Potters and not him, then? If they all know otherwise?”

“Why would any Death Eater out here speak up for me?” Black asked. “The ones who know I was never on their side, they’d laugh at the idea of me going to prison on their Dark Lord’s sickle. And they wouldn’t all know, would they? Voldemort wouldn’t have told everyone who his spy in the Order was. Probably most of the filth out here who worked for him think I really _was_ his spy,” he added, disgust thick in his voice, “and they just hadn’t been told. The ones in Azkaban all know the truth by now—can’t help but listen to one another’s screams in there, there’s nothing else to hear—but do you think anyone else listens to wizards who’ve been locked up?” Black spat. “As soon as you go into Azkaban everyone stops paying attention to anything you say. You’re guilty, remember? And mad to boot, with the dementors feeding off you,” he added hollowly, and shivered.

“So how do we know you aren’t just crazy?” Harry asked. “How do _you_ know?”

Black frowned, but not as though he was angry with Harry. He seemed to be pondering his answer. “I don’t know,” he said. “I think the only reason I never lost my mind is that I knew I was innocent. That wasn’t a happy thought, so the dementors couldn’t suck it out of me…but it kept me sane and knowing who I am…helped me keep my powers…so when it all became…too much…I could transform in my cell…become a dog. Dementors can’t see, you know….” He swallowed. “They feel their way toward people by feeding off their emotions….They could tell that my feelings were less—less human, less complex when I was a dog…but they thought, of course, that I was losing my mind like everyone else in there, so it didn’t trouble them. But I was weak, very weak, and I had no hope of driving them away from me without a wand….”

“So how did you get out?” Draco asked. He didn’t sound like he was buying a word of Black’s story, but he looked rattled.

“When Fudge came to inspect Azkaban last year, he gave me his paper. And there was Peter, on the front page…and the caption said that boy, the one who had him on his shoulder, he would be going back to Hogwarts…to where Harry was…perfectly positioned to act, if one hint reached his ears that the Dark Side was gathering strength again…ready to strike at the moment he could be sure of allies…and to deliver the last Potter to them. If he gave them Harry, who’d dare say he’d betrayed Lord Voldemort? He’d be welcomed back with honors….” His eyes refocused suddenly, darting between Harry and Draco. “I’m sure Peter isn’t the only one who’s thought of that possibility….”

“That still doesn’t explain how you got out,” Draco said shrilly.

Black stared at him fixedly, making Draco squirm. He dropped his gaze first and muttered something that Harry couldn’t hear. Black gave a rough bark of laughter and started talking again: “I knew I had to do something. I was the only one who knew Peter was still alive. It was as if someone had lit a fire in my head, and the dementors couldn’t destroy it….It wasn’t a happy feeling…it was an obsession…but it gave me strength, it cleared my mind. So, one night when they opened my door to bring food, I slipped past them as a dog….It’s so much harder for them to sense animal emotions that they were confused….I was thin, very thin…thin enough to slip through the bars….I swam as a dog back to the mainland….I journeyed north and slipped into the Hogwarts grounds as a dog. I’ve been living in the forest every since, except when I came to watch the Quidditch, of course. You fly as well as your father did, Harry….”

He looked at Harry, who did not look away.

“Believe me,” croaked Black. “Believe me, Harry. I never betrayed James and Lily. I would have died before I betrayed them.”

And at long last, Harry believe him. Throat too tight to speak, he nodded.

“So what?” Draco asked. They both started and turned to face him. “It’s a far-fetched story, you must admit,” he sneered. “And you still haven’t offered any real proof. Just a name on a magical map that was made by a werewolf. Nobody is going to believe that.”

 “You don’t have to believe me,” Black retorted ruthlessly, “just kill the rat. Maybe I’m making it all up. Does it matter? What’s one rat, more or less?” His eyes burned with a frightening intensity. He had moved so close to the translucent barrier that his dirty robes flattened against it like they’d hit glass He wasn’t staring at Harry, or at Draco, but rather at the lump in the pillowcase. It was squeaking piteously.

“Kill…the rat?” Harry repeated dumbly. “But….”

“That rat is the reason you don’t have parents,” Black told him.

Draco made a scornful noise of disbelief, but Harry wasn’t so sure. Black sounded so certain….

He lifted his wand and looked at it, debating. “I guess there isn’t really much to lose,” he said. “Weasley’s already thought it was dead for months, and it is just a rat….” He ignored a pang of conscience that asked him what he would think of someone calling Hedwig “just an owl” and firmed his grip on his wand, trying to decide what spell to use.

“Yesss,” Black’s voice was a whisper, low and sibilant. It reminded Harry of the whisper of the basilisk in the pipes last year and he faltered, suddenly full of doubts. He glanced back at Black, whose fathomless gaze was fixed on the pillowcase as if he might be able to burn holes through it just by staring.

“And then what?” Draco asked. “We’ll have a dead rat and you’ll get Kissed. Is that how you want this to end? That sounds like a great plan.”

“Shut-up,” Black snarled at him, but Harry was lowering his wand.

“He’s got a point,” he said. “There won’t be any proof.”

Black turned his surly glare to Harry. A muscle in his jaw worked, like he was fighting against saying something. Finally he spat, “Fine. I don’t know why I’m surprised. Keep your hands clean.” He shuddered all over, took another deep breath, and said in a softer tone of voice, “It’s for the best anyway, I guess. It’s one thing for me to commit the crime I was convicted of, another for you to become a murderer on nothing but my say-so.” He nodded slowly, more to himself than to them, or maybe to some imaginary companion he’d been arguing with inside his head.

“All right, proof then. That’s easy enough. You just have to convince them to make Peter change back. There are spells that can be used to force an Animagus to return to their proper form. McGonagall will know them, even if she hasn’t taught them to you yet—”

“We covered Animagi in class earlier this year,” Harry admitted, “but I don’t remember her saying anything about that.”

“She didn’t,” Draco confirmed, and Harry believed him. “And that’s Transfiguration, not Charms, so I doubt Flitwick will have any books that will help us in here.” He waved a hand around the small office; it was lined with shelves stuffed full of books and strange, intricate devices, but Harry was sure that Draco was right and none of them contained the information they needed.

“Well there’s no time to go to the library,” Harry said. “We’ll just have to—to wait until someone comes, I guess, and then convince them to try the spell. Or we could go wake up Flitwick….” He winced, not liking the thought of how that conversation would probably go; he had been foolish to let Flitwick see him when he’d tried to Stun him. He was surely facing at least a detention if not worse for attacking a teacher, regardless of what else happened tonight.

“I’d rather go get Snape,” Draco said with a grimace, probably thinking of the same thing.

“NOT SNAPE!” Black roared, making them both jump backwards.

“But—” began Draco.

“NO!” Black glared at them, his eyes blazing and his teeth bared. He offered no explanation. Harry and Draco exchanged nervous looks.

“I guess Flitwick, then,” Harry said hesitantly, after a moment.

Draco swallowed hard and nodded. They edged toward the door together, keeping an eye on Black. He seemed to be making a visible effort to bring himself under control. It didn’t look like it was doing much good. Harry wondered how much of his volatility was due to his time in Azkaban and how much of it had been there all along, like Draco had said.

“Check the map,” Draco urged, when Harry reached for the doorknob. “Just—just in case.”

Harry realized that he had left it sitting on the floor near Black’s magical cage. He hurried back over to pick it up, trying to look like he’d left it there on purpose, rather than being so rattled he’d forgotten all about it. He looked it over but didn’t see any sign of Fudge leading his forces toward Flitwick’s office. “I think we’re all right,” he said. He saw Draco’s pointedly-raised eyebrows and thought hard. “But let me just take another look,” Harry said slowly, and bent over the map again. He was sure Draco was trying to tell him something, something he didn’t want to say aloud in front of Sirius. He looked harder. There still didn’t seem to be any Aurors in the castle—nor was there any sign of Snape. He caught Draco’s eye and gave his head a tiny shake.

Draco sighed. “All right,” he said, and grimaced. “Let’s go wake up Flitwick.” He reached for the door.

The moment his hand left the pillowcase, as if the creature inside had just been waiting for his grip to loosen, it burst open. A gray form exploded out through the shredded fabric, twisting madly, and growing as it fell. It was like watching a speeded-up film of a growing tree. A head was shooting upward from the ground; limbs were sprouting; a moment later, a man was standing in the room with them. He took only a second to get his bearings; Harry just caught a glimpse of a short, balding man. He had the shrunken appearance of a plump man who has lost a lot of weight in a short time. The tattered remains of the pillowcase hung at his neck like a ragged scarf. His small, watery eyes darted around the room and fastened on the door. Before Harry could get his wand up the man darted forward, shoving Draco out of the way, and yanked the door open. He lunged through and Harry’s Stunner hit the doorframe. Pettigrew slammed the door shut behind him and Harry heard several loud, metallic clicks as though a number of locks had fastened all at once.

He threw himself at the door and tried to pull it open but it wouldn’t budge. “Alohamora!” Harry screamed, pointing his wand at the latch. It clicked, but the door stayed shut. He turned to Draco, horror on his face. “Get it open,” he said, breathless. “Get it open!”

Draco pushed himself to his feet and tried every spell he could think of. The door still didn’t open, although the smooth wood was soon marred by several scorched and smoking blotches.

Slowly Harry turned back around to face Sirius Black. He was staring back without speaking, his waxen face blank with dismay. “No, no, no, no,” he was whispering to himself, over and over again. “No, no, no, no. No! PETER! NO! YOU BASTARD!” His shocked calm shattering, Black flung himself at the barrier, battering it with his fists, kicking it, even beating his own forehead against it. The watery shield wobbled and reverberated with the blows, like someone striking the skin of a drum, but it didn’t break.

“Stop it!” Harry screamed at him. “Stop it, please!”

Eventually Black slumped back, panting hard. Blood trickled from his nose and his forehead was bruised. The knuckles on one hand had split and more bruises were blossoming under the filth on his hands. He looked, suddenly, worse than mad: he looked broken. “He got away,” Black whispered, “you let him get away.” His eyes fixed suddenly on Draco and there was a burning hatred in them such as Harry had never seen before, not even when Snape looked at Professor Lupin.

“I—I didn’t mean to,” Draco stammered, quailing before Black’s glare. “He just—just—”

“You expect me to believe that wasn’t on purpose?” Black snarled.

“Of course it wasn’t on purpose!” Harry said. “Stop it! We’ll—we’ll figure it out, okay?”

He turned around and kicked the door. It did nothing to unlock the Charms holding it closed but it gave him an excuse to look away from the disappointed betrayal on Black’s haggard face. He kicked it again because he didn’t know what else to do. He hoped Flitwick woke from the Stunning Spell soon; surely he would investigate his office right away, to make sure that Black was still where he was supposed to be. If he came soon enough, if he believed their story the first time they told it, maybe they could lock down the school, and stop Pettigrew from getting away….

And suddenly it clicked into place what Pettigrew had done, who he was. _That_ was the man who had betrayed his parents, who had gotten them killed. All the hatred Harry had nurtured this year toward Black tilted sideways in his head. It wasn’t Black he hated, it was Pettigrew, who had just escaped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the original canon the last day of exams took place on June 6th and was the night of a full moon. However, historically the closest full moons of 1994 actually fell on May 25th and June 23rd, not the sixth. Working with either of those dates conflicts with the canon presented in the original Prisoner of Azkaban though, since there is no way there could be a full moon a mere twelve days after one on May 25th, or another seventeen days after June 6th. I have thus chosen to default to the original canon’s timeline rather than that of reality (perhaps the same temporal distortion that allows Hogwarts to always start classes on Monday, September 2nd, affects the moon’s cycle in the skies over the school!), setting our full moon on May 9th so that it meshes with the moon-cycle found in the book rather than that of reality. Hopefully all of that makes sense. Lycanthropy certainly does make timekeeping complicated!
> 
> Also, a [doodle](http://tathrin.deviantart.com/art/Hermione-Makes-a-Delivery-642365370?ga_submit_new=10%253A1477526721) for this chapter:  
> 


	17. Nighttime Flight

Harry slammed a hand against the door, hard. Suddenly he understood why Black had attacked the magical barrier even knowing he wouldn’t be able to breach it. He wanted to hit something, anything; it might as well be the door that was keeping him from getting the vengeance he needed.

He raised his hand to hit it again and the door swung open. Harry stumbled backwards out of the way, gaping. Hermione Granger stood on the other side, looking pale and resolute, her wand in her hand.

“Oh good,” she said, “I’m in time. What time is it?”

“What?” said Harry. “Out of the way, I need to—”

Hermione shook her head and pushed Harry back inside. He was so dumbfounded he let her.

“But—Pettigrew—I have to catch him—”

“Oh, but you said it’s too late for that,” Hermione said, frowning uncertainly. “Unless I’m too early, oh dear. What time is it?” She pushed back the sleeve of her robe to check her watch. “Eleven-oh-eight,” she announced, “all right, good. Remember that,” she told Harry and Draco firmly. “You’re going to have to tell me later, so don’t forget!”

Harry ignored her. He had unfolded the Marauder’s Map again and was busy checking every inch of it for a trace of Pettigrew’s name somewhere—anywhere. He found Snape pacing near the front entrance, Hagrid walking the line of the Forbidden Forest, and Professor Trelawney up in her tower. Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Lupin were still in Lupin’s office. Flitwick was right where they had left him, tucked in the corner of the hallway outside. There was no sign of Peter Pettigrew’s name anywhere on the map. He was gone.

“Already gone, hasn’t he?” Black asked, his voice hoarser than ever.

Harry nodded jerkily, feeling sick to his stomach.

“Yes, that’s what you said,” Hermione repeated inanely. She walked across the room to stand in front of Sirius, who had slumped down to sit on the floor of his magical prison. She looked nervous and swallowed hard. Then she said, “Hello Mr. Black. I’m Hermione Granger, a friend of Harry’s. Do you mind if I let you out of there?”

Harry whirled around to stare at her. “Hermione, WHAT IS GOING ON?” he demanded.

“I can’t explain right now,” Hermione said. “But what I told you before still holds true, all right? You have to tell me all of this later. All of it, all right? That was the deal.”

Harry frowned. “I said we’d explain, but now isn’t really the time. We have to find Dumbledore, or Snape, or somebody, and tell them about—”

“Peter Pettigrew,” Hermione said, “I know, you’ll tell me. But you won’t catch him. Right now you need to get Mr. Black out of here before the Aurors come upstairs. They’ll be arriving any minute and you don’t have a lot of time to get to your broomstick.”

“My broomstick?” said Harry.

“You’ve gone off the deep end,” Draco exclaimed.

Black was staring up at Hermione like he’d never seen anything like her before.

Her cheeks went pink under their scrutiny. “Look,” she said shrilly, “you can either listen to me right now, and we can maybe do a lot of terribly illegal things and help your godfather escape before the Ministry sends their people up here to take him away forever, or you can stand around asking questions that I’m not going to answer and we can all get arrested. What would you rather do?”

Harry wilted under her glare. “I guess…listen to you?”

“Good.” Hermione took a deep breath and bent down. She touched her wand to the edge of the glowing line and said a lot of words very fast. Harry only caught a few of them but he knew a spell—or a series of spells, maybe—when he heard one. Sirius stood up and backed away nervously. The tip of Hermione’s wand glowed yellow, then blue, and the watery haze around Sirius flowed down to the floor and melted away. The room smelled, briefly, of dandelions. Hermione straightened up, smiling in a satisfied way. “Well, that was easier than I thought it would be,” she said, more to herself than to them. “It’s a good thing I did that extra reading about compound spells for my Charms essay…” She noticed them all staring at her and blushed harder.

“Anyway,” she said shrilly, “shouldn’t we be getting out of here?”

Harry cleared his throat. “Um, what did you mean about my broomstick, earlier?”

Hermione frowned speculatively. “Well, that’s what you told me we did, but you weren’t entirely clear, I’m sorry to say. You really didn’t listen to me very well when I told you to tell me _everything_ , did you?”

Harry had no idea what to say to that. He turned to Draco for support but Draco looked every bit as confused as Harry felt. He looked back at Hermione. “What?” he said.

She sighed. “You told me that after I let you out of Professor Flitwick’s office, we went down to the dungeons to get your broomstick before the Aurors come inside. It’s part of your plan to get Mr. Black out of here, but you didn’t tell me exactly how that part worked.”

“Stop calling me that,” Black muttered. “Please. Just—Sirius is fine.”

“Er, if you like,” said Hermione, glancing back at him as if she really wasn’t sure what to make of the ragged, filthy, skeletal figure she had just released.

“Whatever we’re doing, shouldn’t we do it?” Draco demanded. He was peering out the office doorway anxiously, one hand resting white-knuckled along the side of the door as though he was afraid that if left unsupervised it might swing shut and lock them all in again.

“Right,” said Harry. “Let’s go. We can work out the details on the way.”

He stuffed the Marauder’s Map back in his pocket and started for the door, then stopped. He looked at Sirius. “You’d better wear the cloak,” he said. “If the rest of us are seen we’ll just get a detention and lose some housepoints.” He heard Hermione’s breath catch in her throat and ignored her. “If someone sees you, it’s game over.”

Sirius nodded and took the cloak that Harry held out to him. He swung it over his head with a practiced twitch of his wrist and disappeared from sight. Harry felt unaccountably nervous; what if Black took the opportunity to sneak away on his own?

“That won’t help you if we run into any dementors, though,” he said loudly. “So stick close to us, all right?”

“All right,” said Black’s voice from somewhere to Harry’s left.

He swallowed and led the way down the hallway. He felt uncomfortably exposed without his dad’s cloak and paused several times to check the map as he led them down several flights of stairs. Twice they had to double-back to avoid a roaming teacher or prefect patrol and once to steer clear of Peeves. Harry was glad that the poltergeist showed-up on the map; the thought of what kind of disaster he could have wrecked had he spotted them made Harry shiver. He was glad, too, that the invisibility cloak didn’t interfere with the map; he felt better knowing that Sirius couldn’t slip away undetected as long as Harry kept his eyes on the map. He wondered how his dad and his friends had made such an incredible device, and couldn’t believe how lucky he was that it had ended up in his hands.

“Why did you think Professor Lupin would have the map?” Harry asked as they scurried down a back staircase to the third floor.

“Well Filch confiscated it from us our last year of school,” the invisible Sirius replied. “There wasn’t much point in us taking it back, since it wasn’t good for anywhere outside Hogwarts. But when I saw Moon—when I saw Remus here, I knew it had to be because he was teaching. Right?”

“Right,” Harry nodded. “Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

“Ah,” said Sirius, “very nice. He’d be good at that. Well, obviously the first thing he did when he got here was steal the map back, right?” There was a rustle of cloth, maybe from a shrug. “Or maybe not; as a teacher he wouldn’t need to steal it I guess, he could have just demanded Filch turn it over. However he got it back from that old grouch…when did he give it to you?”

“He didn’t,” Harry said, feeling surprised. “He didn’t know I had it. He thought it was still with Filch. We came across him looking for it after you got captured,” he explained.

“And then he turned into a _werewolf_ ,” Draco chimed in, grimacing. He sneaked a glance toward Hermione to see how she would react; she didn’t look surprised, but her face fell.

“Oh dear,” was all she said. “Were you two the only ones who saw him?”

“No,” said Harry, “there were a whole bunch of Slytherins and Hufflepuffs with us. Just about everyone who was in the library with you, I think. We were on our way back to our common rooms.”

“Oh dear,” Hermione said again. “I do hope no one overreacts.”

“Overreacts?” exclaimed Draco. “To a werewolf?”

“Shh!” said Harry. He was looking at the map again. A little black dot labeled Percy Weasley was walking down a connecting corridor, coming their way. Harry had never liked Percy much—he was a Gryffindor prefect, after all—although he had been a little more easy-going back before he had become Head Boy. Harry wasn’t sure if that was due to the rank or to the fact that he’d lost a friend and fellow prefect when the Chamber of Secrets had been opened last year, but he knew that of all the school’s prefects, Percy Wealey was probably the one he would least like to be caught by. It was awkward being scolded by someone who ended every lecture by reminding you how grateful he was that you’d saved his little sister’s life, but you had still better stop breaking rules, or else!

Weasley’s dot moved toward them briskly and Harry tensed, wondering if they ought to run forward and Stun him before he could spot them, but he turned down the left-hand corridor and kept walking. Harry let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“Okay,” he whispered, “coast is clear again.”

They moved on in silence for a while.

Suddenly it occurred to Harry why they were getting his broom. “You’ll escape on my broom,” he told Sirius, his heart heavy. “It’s a Firebolt—”

“I know,” said Sirius. “I bought it for you.”

All three of them turned around in shock. They didn’t gape at Sirius because none of them knew exactly where he was, but they stared in the general direction of his voice, surprise on their faces.

“You see?” Hermione was the first to recover her voice. “You see! I was right!”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Okay, fine,” he said sourly, “but it still wasn’t jinxed, was it?”

“Hmph,” said Hermione smugly.

Harry sighed. “Anyway,” he said, shooting a glare at Hermione, “it’s got to be faster than anything the Ministry can follow you with, so even if they spot you, you should still be able to get away.”

For a long moment there was silence. Hermione was enjoying her victory while Draco stared at Harry in horror, as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Harry tried not to look at him, not wanting to feel worse about his decision than he already did. Giving up his Firebolt was a wrench, but it was just a broomstick. Sirius’s life was more important.

“Thank you, Harry,” Sirius said quietly.

Harry grunted. After a moment Hermione asked, “Shouldn’t we be going to the broomshed, then? Isn’t that where you Quidditch players keep your brooms?”

Harry blushed. “Well, yes,” he said, “but I…didn’t want to leave it there. It’s in my dormitory.” He cleared his throat. “Which is just as well,” he continued loudly, “because if we had to walk all the way across the grounds to the broomshed, we’d almost surely be seen by someone.”

He didn’t mention that sneaking past the entrance hall not once, but twice, to get to the dungeons and back again would probably be almost as risky—but he quickened his pace. The others did likewise.

Harry made them all wait a good two minutes at the top of the main staircase, huddled down behind the banister, while he checked every inch of the school grounds on the map for any sign of Fudge or his forces. Only when he was sure that there was no one within the bounds of the map did Harry wave them forward down the stairs. They took them at a run, even Sirius, the cloak flapping open around his ankles, and didn’t stop running until they had turned the corner to the dungeons. Then they flattened themselves against the wall while Harry looked at the map again.

“It doesn’t look like anyone saw us,” he whispered. He beckoned them to follow and led the way to a rarely-used side corridor that was half-hidden behind a moldy tapestry. “All right, the rest of you wait here. I’ll go down alone; there’s no sense all of us risking getting spotted when we’ll just have to come back up here again. You should be safe enough here. I’ll be back as quick as I can.”

Draco caught his arm. “I should go,” he argued. “I’m better at talking my way out of trouble than you are.”

Harry couldn’t deny that, although he frowned. He didn’t like the idea of Draco going off on his own, of him taking a risk on Harry’s behalf. “Are you sure?” he asked. Draco had been acting a lot less skittish after learning that the werewolf was tucked away in his office, but he still looked rattled by everything that had happened tonight—not that Harry wasn’t, but that was different.

“That you’re wretched at coming up with a good story when someone catches you doing something you shouldn’t?” Draco smirked. “Yes, quite sure.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Harry said.

“I know. I’ll be quick,” Draco shrugged.

“I don’t like it.” Sirius’s voice was a growl.

Draco glared in the rough direction of the invisible man. “I’m not asking you to,” he retorted. “I don’t much like it either. But if you’d rather just wait for the dementors—”

“We don’t have time to argue!” Hermione hissed. She was looking at her watch again. “Hurry!”

That settled things, although Harry wasn’t happy about it. He shoved the map into Draco’s hands and the pale boy left at a sprint. Harry watched him disappear down the stairs and felt his stomach twist into knots.

 “Bad idea,” Sirius muttered. Fabric rustled as though he was fidgeting. “He’ll go find Snape, tell him what’s going on; he’ll get the Ministry, or maybe just come up here himself—”

“What do you have against Snape?” Harry demanded. It was better than trying to argue with what Sirius was saying. He knew better than anyone how quick Draco was to rely on Snape, and while he didn’t share Sirius’s distrust of the Potions Master, he couldn’t deny that the idea of Snape in a temper was a worrying one. He wasn’t in the dungeons though, or at least he hadn’t been when they’d left Flitwick’s office. He hadn’t mentioned that to Draco, and now he wondered if the reason his friend had been so quick to volunteer to fetch the Firebolt had been because he’d been hoping to find their Head of House on the way. He wasn’t going to say as much to Sirius, though.

After a long moment during which Harry thought Sirius would refuse to answer, he said, “We were in school together. Never liked him. Slimy little git. Nose deep in the Dark Arts. Always skulking around, spying on people. He hung out with a bad crowd, too.” There was a long moment of silence and then he added diffidently, as though it didn’t much matter, “He’s got a bit of a grudge against me, too. It was just a stupid prank—he deserved it, the greasy bastard—but he took it personal.”

Harry shrugged. “Well, that was a long time ago,” he said.

Sirius made a noise of disbelief.

“It’s eleven thirty-six,” Hermione announced suddenly. “Remember that, all right Harry?”

“Fine,” Harry replied, hardly listening to her. He was fidgeting with his wand and staring at the empty hallway that led to the dungeons. He wished that he hadn’t given Draco the map; he would need it to get to their common room without being seen, but not knowing what was going on was maddening.

“He’s going to betray you.” Sirius’s voice was a lot closer than it had been before, and quieter too, just a breath in Harry’s ear.

Harry jumped. “What?” he gasped.

“Malfoy,” said Sirius. “You can’t trust him.”

“He’s my friend.” Harry leaned away from Black. “My _best_ friend,” he added firmly.

Black _hmmed_ under his breath. It wasn’t a happy noise.

“Look,” Harry rounded on him, “just because _your_ friend betrayed you doesn’t mean that kind of thing happens ordinarily, all right? Draco’s stood by me through a—a _lot_.” Harry remembered facing down the teenaged memory of Lord Voldemort and shivered. “You don’t even know him,” he muttered, dropping his gaze and kicking sulkily at the wall. “And whatever problems you had with your family, they’ve got nothing to do with Draco. He wasn’t even born when you got disowned.”

“What do you know about that?” Black asked.

Harry shrugged. “Not much,” he said. “Draco just mentioned it a while ago. When we thought you were trying to murder me,” he added awkwardly.

“Ah,” said Black. He didn’t say anything else for a while. Harry was starting to worry that he had left when he spoke again: “Well you’re right, I don’t know him. But I know I don’t trust either of his parents as far as I can throw a hippogriff. You be careful around them, all right?”

“They’ve been nothing but nice to me,” Harry retorted immediately. Of course they had told Draco to stay away from him this year, but only because they were worried that he’d get hurt, and Harry thought he could hardly blame them for that—especially after last year. And he did owe Mr. Malfoy for helping him out with the Dursleys….

“They do that,” Black said drily. “It’s always for a very good reason.”

Harry scowled and turned his back. Hermione was studying the tapestry they were skulking behind with forced intensity, as though it was so interesting she couldn’t possibly be listening to their conversation too. She kept sneaking peeks at her watch.

No one said anything for a while. Eventually Sirius cleared his throat and said, “Er—I’m not sure if you know, Harry, but your mum and dad, they made me your guardian, if anything happened to them….”

“I know,” said Harry.

“Right,” said Sirius. “That’s right, Hermione mentioned that, didn’t she?”

“Er,” said Hermione, “I may have.” She looked worried again. “You knew that already though, didn’t you Harry?” she asked.

“What?” said Harry. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, I heard some teachers talking about it.”

Hermione sighed with relief and buried her attention in the tapestry again. Harry eyed Sirius—or the empty air where he thought Sirius might be, anyway—speculatively. “So…?” he asked.

“Well, I understand of course if you want to stay with your aunt and uncle,” Sirius said, “but I just thought I should offer, you know, once my name is cleared, if you wanted to….”

Harry waited. Did Sirius mean what he thought he meant?

He never found out; just then Draco came pelting around the corner, breathless, Harry’s Firebolt slung over his shoulder. To Harry’s surprise he wasn’t alone: Crabbe and Goyle followed him.

“Okay,” said Draco, “here’s your broom. Now what?”

“Who’s this?” Sirius asked, his voice tense again.

“What? Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle,” said Draco dismissively. “They don’t matter. They’ll help, don’t worry about it. What do we do now?”

“I guess we get outside,” Harry said. He felt like he had swallowed a jar full of butterflies that had suddenly burst open in his stomach. He should have been working on the rest of the plan while Draco was getting the broomstick, but instead he’d let himself get distracted by Sirius’s doubts. Now he cursed under his breath and peered anxiously around the corner.

“I think we’re still clear,” he said. “Let’s go.”

“Hullo,” he heard Goyle say to Hermione, while Crabbe grunted his own greeting. “Where’s the invis’ble madman?” They were both looking around curiously.

“Well, he’s invisible,” said Hermione, “so…” She gestured vaguely as they all fell into step behind Harry. He strained his ears, trying to hear the sound of the cloak whisking across the stones so he could place where Sirius was, but there were too many footsteps now and Crabbe and Goyle were heavy on their feet. He couldn’t hear anything useful until Sirius suddenly swore.

Harry looked over in time to see him stumble, the cloak bunching around his legs—and around the orange cat that was rubbing itself against him. “Crookshanks, no!” Hermione hissed.

The cat ignored her and purred loudly. “I’ll get rid of it,” Crabbe offered.

“Don’t you dare!” Hermione said, rounding on Crabbe with a furious whisper. She shook her finger under his nose and he stared down at her, shocked at receiving an order from so unexpected a source.

“Crookshanks, stop it,” Harry whispered. He bent down to try and shoo the cat away but his head hit something hard that clunked and he reeled backwards, eyes watering; from the curse that came out of empty air, he knew it was Sirius he’d knocked skulls with.

“Sorry,” Harry muttered, rubbing the bump on his head.

“Crookshanks, did you call him?” Sirius asked. The cat purred and twisted his squashed face, as though he was rubbing his cheeks against something Harry couldn’t see. “This is a very clever cat, you know. He’s been helping me—”

“I saw you together!” Harry exclaimed, then cringed when Hermione and Draco both shushed him. “I mean, I wasn’t sure what I saw, and I thought you were maybe the Grim—but I saw you.”

“The Grim?” Sirius asked, sounding amused.

“Long story,” Harry muttered, when Draco opened his mouth as though eager to explain. “Anyway, why has Crookshanks been helping you? Did you know him before you went to Azkaban?”

“No,” said Sirius, “I met him once I came to Hogwarts. He knew right away that I was no dog, although it took a while before he trusted me…but he recognized Peter for what he was right away. He’s the most intelligent of his kind that I’ve ever met. I managed to communicate to him what I was after, and he agreed to help me.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione breathed.

“He tried to bring Peter to me, but couldn’t…so he stole the passwords into Gryffindor Tower for me….As I understand it, he took them from a boy’s bedside table….But Peter got wind of what was going on and ran for it….” croaked Sirius. “Crookshanks told me Peter had left blood on the sheets….I supposed he bit himself….Well, faking his own death had worked once….”

“Faking his death?” Harry repeated.

“Of course.” Sirius sounded surprised. “What did you think happened?”

“I thought…I thought he cornered you, and you killed him—well, I guess just tried to kill him, since he escaped, that he got away after the fight and you were captured….”

“And you thought _I_ killed all those Muggles?” Sirius asked, indignant.

“We-ell….” said Harry, shrugging helplessly. He ducked away from Hermione’s curious, accusatory gaze.

“No,” Sirius said firmly. “When I cornered him, he yelled for the whole street to hear that I’d betrayed Lily and James. Then, before I could curse him, he blew apart the street with the wand behind his back, killed everyone within twenty feet of himself—and sped down into the sewer with the other rats….” There was a long moment of silence, then Sirius asked in a strange, quiet voice, “You thought I’d killed all those people trying to get to Peter, and you were still going to help me escape?”

Harry squirmed. “I figured it was an accident,” he muttered. He wished that Hermione wasn’t here to hear this. She was such a stickler for following the rules, she probably wouldn’t understand. His other friends were more pragmatic—or at least, Draco was more pragmatic, and both Crabbe and Goyle would follow Draco’s lead.

After a moment Harry said, “Anyway, shouldn’t we get a move on?”

“Of course.” Hermione’s voice was a little strained but she bent over and picked up Crookshanks so they could move without tripping over the cat. Harry led them on, walking very quickly to avoid having to look at anyone.

He turned the corner into the entrance hall and froze. Across the room a number of cloaked figures were nearing the top of the main staircase. Near the front a short man with a lime green bowler hat walked next to the headmaster. Harry held out his arms to hold back the others; they all stumbled to a halt, staring in horror. Harry hardly dared breathe. If any of them turned around….

No one did. They disappeared one by one up the stairs and Harry sagged with relief. “Come on,” he hissed, and scurried across the entrance hall as quickly as he dared, the others following.

Harry was almost to the door before he felt the familiar icy cold gripping his insides. He slowed and staggered. “No,” he whispered, and looked outside through the open double doors.

Six dementors waited, lined up along each side of the stairs that led into the grounds.

“No, no, no,” said Harry. He sank to his knees, staring at the cloaked figures. Hands gripped his shoulder, shook him. Inside his head, a woman started screaming somewhere very far away.

Then someone grabbed him by the arms and heaved him across their shoulders with a grunt. Harry barely noticed. The misery of this fresh defeat mingled with the pain of listening to his parents die and it all rolled over him in a thick black wave. He forgot Lupin’s lessons completely.

The next thing Harry knew he was being set down gently against a hard stone wall. “Are you all right? Harry, are you all right?”

He looked into the haggard face of Sirius Black. The invisibility cloak had slipped down around his neck, exposing his head and his left side. One of his hands gripped Harry’s shoulder in a worried, reassuring sort of way. The others stood behind Sirius, peering down at him, their faces nervous.

“I’m all right,” Harry said automatically. The chill was receding. It didn’t vanish, but it shrank, and his mother’s voice shrank with it. “What happened? Did I faint?”

“Not exactly,” said Sirius. He tried to smile; on his skull-like, waxy face it wasn’t very comforting, but Harry appreciated the gesture. “You just got a bit—overcome. Look, you’ve gotten me this far, that’s more than anyone could ask. I’ll be fine on my own from here, all right?” Sirius squeezed his shoulder and stood up.

Harry lunged and caught his hand. “No!” he cried, remembering at the last minute to keep his voice to a whisper. “Are you mental? You can’t go out there against six dementors. You don’t even have a wand!”

Sirius shrugged. “If I shift to my dog form I can probably get past them before they know I’m there.”

“Yeah, right,” said Draco. Sirius glared at him but Draco stared back, unabashed. “Oh I’m sorry,” he sneered, “am I supposed to applaud your stupid sacrifice on merits of nobility? Because it isn’t, it’s just stupid. There’s nothing to gain from an empty gesture.”

Harry struggled to his feet before they could start arguing. “Nobody is sacrificing anything,” he said firmly. “Draco’s right, that _is_ a stupid idea. The dementors are after you, not us,” he continued, before Sirius could take offense. “Why would we let you run right to them? After all this work to get you out of the castle?” He shook his head. “We’ll just take a different exit. You’re leaving on broomstick, after all,” he added, ignoring the way that idea pinched him, “so you don’t even need a door, just a window big enough to climb out through. Come on.”

He was happy to lead the way away from the front door and the dementors, although the chill of their presence seemed to cling to him.

“I think it’s time to get a teacher,” Hermione muttered.

“I can’t believe I agree with you,” said Draco.

Harry ignored them both. “We’ll go up a flight of stairs and open a window,” he said. “Then you hop out and fly away. No big deal. And put that cloak back on,” he ordered crossly. He snatched his Firebolt from Draco and started walking faster, forcing the others to trot to keep up.

Sirius frowned at him, then tugged the invisibility cloak back over his face. Harry breathed a sigh of relief as his godfather vanished from view again. He’d been worried that someone would see him. Then he glanced at the orange cat in Hermione’s arms. Had Crookshanks come to delay them on purpose? If they hadn’t stopped to deal with him they would have walked right out in the middle of all those Aurors. And Sirius said the cat was intelligent, that it had been helping him….

Harry shook the thought off; it didn’t matter. There wasn’t anything more Crookshanks could do for them now. The rest of this was up to him.

He was thinking very fast as they climbed the stairs. He was pretty sure that dementors couldn’t fly—otherwise they’d have come up to get him at that first Quidditch match rather than just waiting below for him to fall—but he knew they didn’t walk, either. How high up could they glide if they really stretched themselves? Would one story be high enough, or should they go to the second floor? Did they dare take the time to climb another flight of stairs and risk exposing themselves more? How long would it take Fudge and the Aurors to get to Flitwick’s office and discover that Sirius Black was gone?

“Can you even fly a broom?” he asked suddenly.

Sirius chuckled. It was a rusty, dry sound, and it seemed to surprise him as much as it did the others, because he stopped very suddenly. Then he said, “Yes, I can fly a broom. I wasn’t a Quidditch star like your dad, but I can handle myself in the air.”

After a moment he added, more to himself than to anyone else, “Always preferred motorcycles, though.”

Harry knew he didn’t have time to question Sirius about that extraordinary statement. He hurried to the end of the hallway and flung-open the wide double windows at the end. “Here,” he said, turning back and searching for Sirius. “This should—this should work. The dementors are on the other side of the castle. Just—just try not to fly in front of the moon, or you’ll be easy to see.” He swallowed hard.

“I know how to shake a tail,” Sirius said, “don’t worry.”

Harry nodded, feeling like a balloon that had suddenly come untethered. Things were happening too fast. He wasn’t ready to say goodbye to his Firebolt and he especially wasn’t ready to say goodbye to the godfather he’d never known.

Sirius pulled the cloak off and studied Harry. Then he reached forward and gave him a quick, awkward hug. He stepped back even quicker, looking embarrassed, and turned to face the others. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely. “All of you. I don’t—I don’t know what to say.”

Draco spoke up suddenly: “I’m sorry I let Pettigrew get away,” he said. He flushed, looking miserable, and muttered mutinously, “I _didn’t_ mean to.”

Sirius hesitated, then held out a hand to Draco. “I believe you,” he said.

Draco grimaced with distaste at the dirt on Sirius’s hand and shook it as briefly as he could, but he did shake it. Harry felt a little bit of the tension that gripped his heart ease. He hadn’t liked the idea of his godfather and his best friend being at odds, even though he barely knew the man.

“And Hermione—”

She shook her head. “Please don’t say anything,” she said. “I can’t explain, I really just can’t.” She clutched her cat and backed away, still shaking her head. Crookshanks purred ferociously. She turned to Harry and Draco and glared at them. “Come find me as soon as you’re done,” she said again. “You just better come find me as soon as you’re done!”

“But you’re right here—”

“I mean it, Harry Potter!” Hermione shrilled. “Terrible things will happen if you don’t!”

“Okay!” said Harry, raising his hands in surrender. “Okay, I promise!”

“Good!” Hermione turned back to Sirius, said, “Good luck, then,” in a very tiny voice, and scurried off down the hallway. Crookshanks crawled up her arms so he could look back at them over her shoulder. His squashed face made him look almost like he was grinning.

Harry turned around, shaking his head in bewilderment. “That is one strange girl,” he muttered. Sensing that he had just given Draco an opening that he shouldn’t have, he hurried to add, “Anyway, Sirius, you should go. Quick. They’ll reach Flitwick’s office any moment, they’ll find out you’re gone.”

He held out the Firebolt, not looking so he wouldn’t have to see Sirius take it.

“Harry….” Sirius said, his voice heavy.

“GO!” Harry shouted.

Sirius took the broomstick and handed him the invisibility cloak.

“Get over here and help,” Draco ordered, and Crabbe and Goyle jumped forward to hold the windows open. On Draco’s command they helped Sirius climb through and steadied him while he slung a leg over Harry’s broomstick. He hovered there, looking back at them for a moment.

“We’ll see each other again,” he said. “You are—truly your father’s son, Harry….”

Harry forced a smile. Sirius offered one in return; it wasn’t a very good smile, but it probably matched Harry’s. “We’ll explain things to the Ministry,” he promised. “Once they know what really happened….”

A distant roar of fury echoed somewhere above them. Harry jumped. “Get out of here!” he told Sirius, who nodded, and turned the Firebolt into the night.

Harry didn’t wait to see him disappear behind the clouds; instead he turned and pelted back down the stairs at a full sprint, his father’s cloak streaming behind him like a silver banner.

“Where are you going?” Draco panted, chasing after him. Crabbe and Goyle pounded along behind, as always.

“Gotta distract the dementors,” Harry replied. “Can’t let them notice him going.”

“How are you going to distract dementors?”

Harry didn’t answer.

“Please tell me you aren’t going to try to sneak past them in the cloak,” Draco moaned.

“It’s okay,” Harry said, in between breaths. “Lupin’s been teaching me how to cast a patronus, remember?”

“SO?” Draco goggled at him. “You think that means you can take on six dementors? Have you even cast one yet?”

Harry didn’t answer. He jumped the last three steps and skidded on the flagstones, catching his balance awkwardly. “Don’t follow me,” he told his friends, and yanked the invisibility cloak on over his head. Not giving himself a chance to second guess his decision, Harry ran full-tilt out the front door.

He could feel the icy chill crawling up from his toes to his forehead, seeping into every inch of his body, settling in his bones. He kept running. He could hear his mother screaming in his head. He kept running. He could feel the eerie presence of the dementors gliding towards him.

He kept running.

“Expecto patronum,” he murmured to himself, “expecto patronum, expecto patronum.” He couldn’t see if a wisp of silver curled out of his wand or not; he was running too fast. “Expecto patronum,” he repeated, “expecto patronum, expecto patronum….”

Sirius was going to get away. Harry was going to make sure of it. “Expecto patronum.” The dementors weren’t going to Kiss him. The Ministry would learn the truth. “Expecto patronum!” They would exonerate Sirius, begin the hunt for Peter Pettigrew, bring him to account for the deaths of Harry’s parents. They would make things right. “Expecto patronum!”

He reached the shore of the Black Lake and turned. The black, fearful robed shapes were closing in. He was going to leave the Dursleys, going to live with his godfather instead. “Expectro patronum! EXPECTO PATRONUM!” A burst of silver exploded from his wand, curling in front of him like a shield. For a moment horns—no, antlers—rose above the top; hoofed legs kicked; a magnificent stag tossed its head.

Then the dementors drew up in a circle around the shining patronus and it wavered, wobbled, and shrank in on itself. “EXPECTO PATRONUM!” Harry shouted, grasping for every happy thought he could pull out of his head. “EXPECTO PATRONUM, EXPECTO PATRONUM!” He pulled the cloak off, panting, tasting ice on the warm spring air. At some point he had fallen to his knees. The silvery light intensified in a thick swirl and the dementors paused at its edges, reaching toward Harry with those horrible, grasping hands. “Expecto patronum,” he gasped, “Expect—expecto….”

The shield quivered, shrank. The dementors moved closer, even though he’d taken off the cloak so they could see that he wasn’t Sirius Black. Inside his head he heard Voldemort laugh. Then his mother’s voice saying, _“Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!”_

_“Stand aside, you silly girl . . . stand aside now.”_

The patronus, what was left of it, dissolved. Clammy hands grabbed his face, tilted it upward. Harry’s arm fell heavily to his side, his wand slipping loosely from his fingers. What was the point in fighting? What was the point in anything?

In the distance he heard the familiar screaming. In front of him, the nearest dementor lowered its hood. Where there should have been eyes, there was only thin, grey scabbed skin, stretched blankly over empty sockets. But there was a mouth…a gaping, shapeless hole, sucking the air with the sound of a death rattle.

A paralyzing terror filled Harry so that he couldn’t move or speak. He could hear his mother pleading. She was going to be the last thing he ever heard….

_“Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead—”_

_“This is my last warning—”_

_“Not Harry! Please . . . have mercy . . . have mercy. . . . Not Harry! Not Harry! Please— I’ll do anything— ”_

“EXPECTO PATRONUM!”

There was a blinding burst of light, then something swooped across Harry’s vision, blazing a bright silver. The rotting hand on his face fell away, all six of the dementors recoiling. Harry squinted against the light. His vision swam and he found himself on hands and knees in the cold dirt at the edge of the lake. Suddenly he could breathe again and he sucked down air in great, heaving gulps. He started to cough and shudder, his frozen limbs jerking as circulation returned in a thousand pinpricks.

Warm fingers fastened on his shoulder and heaved him upright. Something was pressed into his hand and he curled his fingers around it automatically, before realizing numbly that it was his wand.

“Are you all right, Harry?” a kind voice asked.

Harry blinked, his vision gradually swimming in to focus. He found himself staring into the bright blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore.

“Pr—professor Dumbledore?” he said dumbly.

“Indeed,” said Dumbledore, “and just in the nick of time, it seems. I believe this proves what I’ve been saying all along, Cornelius: dementors are too dangerous to be employed as tools of the Ministry, and certainly too dangerous to be allowed this close to a school.”

Dumebldore turned, keeping one hand on Harry’s shoulder, and as he stepped aside Harry saw that they weren’t alone. Five people he didn’t recognize stood in a loose circle facing him and the headmaster. With them stood Cornelius Fudge, one hand still clapped to his hat as though to hold it on as he ran, and Professor Snape, whose sallow face was red. The strangers had to be the Aurors that had come with Fudge; they all looked frantic and were gesturing wildly as they argued with one another, save for the tallest among them: he was a bald, black man, and he alone looked calm. Harry was reminded of a mother duck surrounded by her ducklings and for a moment he almost laughed. Then he looked at Snape. He wasn’t looking at Harry and Dumbledore; he was staring out across the grounds, wand in his hand, as if searching for something. He trembled.

So did Fudge, although on him it seemed more like nervous fidgeting than the strange intensity that rolled off Snape in waves. “No,” Fudge said, shaking his head repeatedly, “no, no certainly not. I never—never dreamed they would try to administer the Kiss to an innocent boy. Have to go—completely out of control—have them packed off back to Azkaban tonight—” He sounded breathless, but Harry couldn’t tell if it was from shock or just the exertion of running all the way from Flitwick’s office to the grounds—and they must have run, to get here so quickly, unless Harry had been held by the dementors for longer than it had seemed….

“And what about Black?” demanded Snape. There was something about Snape’s voice that unsettled Harry. It sounded angry, but not like Snape’s usual anger which was a sort of sharp, burning cold. This sounded like a barely-contained inferno. Harry swallowed and unobtrusively edged closer to Dumbledore.

“Did you see him?” The calm Auror turned to Harry. “We thought we’d find him here at the center of all those dementors,” he explained gently in a deep, calming voice, “not you. Although I suppose it’s not completely a surprise that you’re involved, given what Professor Flitwick thought he saw….”

“Yes,” Snape hissed, as if he’d only just noticed Harry. “What did you see, Potter? What were you doing out here? Did you see Black?”

“I—I don’t remember,” Harry lied, panicky. He wished suddenly that he had brought Draco with him; his friend was much better at making up lies under pressure.

“Out with it!” Snape snarled. There was a mad glint in his eyes that Harry had never seen before. “You came out here for a reason! Were you chasing Black? Was he with you? WHERE IS HE?”

“I—I don’t know,” said Harry, cringing backwards. “I didn’t see….there were just….so many dementors….”

“WHAT WERE YOU DOING OUT OF BED?” Snape bellowed. “DID YOU GO AFTER BLACK ON YOUR OWN? DID YOU LET HIM SLIP AWAY FROM YOU?”

“Really now!” Fudge murmured, taken aback.

 “I suppose he might have taken the boy hostage, then Apparated away when cornered by the dementors….”

Snape rounded on the unfortunate Auror, a tall man with a pasty complexion and a drooping mustache. “YOU CAN’T APPARATE _OR_ DISAPPARATE ANYWHERE ON THE GROUNDS OF HOGWARTS!” he roared. “HE’S STILL HERE, SOMEWHERE!”

 “Well—well,” stammered Fudge, “I suppose we’d better—er—spread out and search for him, then….” He made nervous shooing motions at the five Aurors who all drew their wands and spread out across the lawn. Snape went with them, but only after a last, furious look at Harry.

He was left alone with Fudge and Dumbledore.

Harry couldn’t think of anything to say. He was still shivering, but not as badly as he had been. After a while he asked, “Am I going to lose housepoints?”

Dumbledore chuckled. “Do you think you ought to?” he asked lightly.

“No,” Harry said immediately, because what kind of an idiot would say anything else?

Dumbledore _hmmed_ noncommittally. “I expect Severus will be too distracted tonight to think about that,” he told Harry, which wasn’t much of answer. “He has suffered a great disappointment. It is possible that he may take that frustration out on you in the form of punishment for your breaking curfew and sneaking out of the school and endangering yourself with the dementors, which I think you must agree would be an entirely justifiable course of action if he did.” Harry winced. “Or,” Dumbledore continued in that same speculative tone, “he may forget about your rule-breaking and reckless behavior in favor of stewing over the more upsetting fact of Sirius Black’s escape. I really couldn’t begin to predict which course he will take in this.”

“Oh,” said Harry. He swallowed. It was hard to resist turning to look up at the sky in the direction that Sirius had flown. Surely he had to be far out of sight by now, flying on a Firebolt?

“Er…professor, do you think there’s any chance that Sirius Black might be innocent?” he asked.

“Innocent!” That was Fudge, startled. “My dear boy!” he exclaimed. “You’re clearly still shaken by your terrible encounter with the dementors, to say such ridiculous things! Sirius Black innocent, indeed! Why Harry, if you knew all the details of his crimes—” Fudge broke off, shaking his head.

Dumbledore looked down at Harry, his expression unfathomable. “Is there something you would like to tell me, Harry?” he asked.

Harry took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and said: “Peter Pettigrew faked his death. He was my mum and dad’s Secret Keeper, not Sirius Black. He’s been posing as Ron Weasley’s pet rat for the last twelve years and he escaped tonight. I saw him.” It sounded crazy when he said it out loud, but Harry had to tell them the truth. He’d promised. He prudently didn’t mention how he’d learned all that, or that he’d been responsible for helping Sirius Black escape.

Fudge burst out laughing. “Good heavens, Harry!” he said. Then he sobered, peering closely at Harry, a worried expression on his face. “This has clearly been a very stressful night for you, my boy. It might be best if you had the matron look you over, make sure it’s nothing more than strained nerves….”

“I’m not making it up,” Harry insisted.

“You think Black Confunded him?” Fudge whispered conspiratorially to Dumbledore. “Might have put a jinx on the boy to make him cooperative before he grabbed him as a hostage.”

“That is one possibility,” Dumbledore replied.

“I’m not Confunded!” Harry said loudly.

“Of course you aren’t, of course you aren’t,” Fudge said soothingly, patting his shoulder. Then he leaned toward Dumbledore again and whispered, “You don’t think there’s been any permanent damage, do you?”

“I doubt it,” said Dumbledore. “Cornelius, you will of course want to supervise the search of the grounds, but I think that I had best get Harry back inside. He needs to rest.”

“Oh yes,” said Fudge, “excellent idea! Probably better to get the full story out of the boy after he’s had some time to recover from his nasty ordeal. We can wait for the details until the morning, I think. Yes indeed. A good night’s rest, that’s what’s in order. What do you say, Harry?”

Harry hesitated, his heart sinking. He grasped a frail thread of hope: maybe in the morning, they would be more willing to listen to him. “Sure, Minister,” he said obediently, “I am pretty tired.”

“Of course you are!” Fudge patted his arm again. “Off to bed with you, right away!” He fell into step alongside Harry as Dumbledore walked him back to the castle. Fudge continued talking the whole way; Harry ignored him. He was trying to look around for Sirius without looking like he was looking around. He caught sight of Dumbledore watching him and ducked his head. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he’d seen the headmaster wink. What did Dumbledore know?

“Maybe we should think about dragons at the school entrance,” Fudge was musing, more to himself than to Harry.

“Sure,” said Harry absently, “that sounds like a great idea. Hagrid will love it. Good night, Minister.”

“Good night, Harry, my boy, good night!” Fudge stopped on the threshold of the entrance hall and turned around nervously, as though wishing he could go inside with Harry and Dumbledore. He saw Harry watching him and waved him off cheerfully. “You take care of yourself, my boy!”

Harry risked a glance up at Dumbledore. Was the headmaster going to walk him all the way down to his common room? Or worse, up to hospital? He remembered the strange promise Hermione had extracted from him; how was he going to shake Dumbledore off so he could go find her?

“You’ll be all right from here I think, Harry,” Dumbledore said suddenly. “Unless you would like company on the way back to your common room?”

“Oh—no thank you, professor,” Harry said, feeling relieved. “I’m all right, really.”

“That was an excellent patronus, by the way,” Dumbledore said. “Most impressive. I dare say if there had been only two or three dementors you would have had them well in hand. Fine work indeed. Professor Lupin will doubtless be quite pleased.” He held out a bundle of silvery cloth. “And this, I believe, is yours,” he said.

Harry gulped. He managed not to snatch at the invisibility cloak, although he held it to his chest tightly after he took it from Dumbledore. “Er—thanks,” he said. He waited for Dumbledore to ask him what he had been doing with it, but Dumbledore said nothing. Maybe he believed Harry’s story about not being able to remember anything from before the dementors attacked him.

“Well…good night, then,” Harry said weakly, and slunk away as quickly as he could without outright running. He chanced a peek back over his shoulder before he turned the corner to the dungeons but there was no sign of Dumbledore. Harry hoped that he had gone outside to help with the search, and wasn’t waiting somewhere in the castle for Harry to stumble over him later. He reminded himself to check the map carefully before heading to Gryffindor Tower.

First he trotted to the Slytherin Dungeon. He found his friends waiting nervously in the main room. Other than them the room was empty, everyone else having gone to bed. “Well?” Draco asked before the stones had finished closing.

“He got away,” Harry said. “Come on.”

“What do you mean, ‘come on’?” Draco demanded, looking askance.

“Hermione, remember? We promised.”

Draco groaned. “Are you kidding?” he said.

“We _promised_ ,” Harry repeated.

Draco raised his arms in a helpless, entreating gesture toward the unseen sky, then slumped down, visibly deflating. “I give up,” he muttered. “You’re completely insane.”

“Maybe,” Harry said. “Now come on, would you?”

Draco turned to scowl at Crabbe and Goyle. “Okay,” he said, “you two, get to bed. Just like last time, all right? Make sure the curtains around mine and Harry’s beds are still closed, and if anyone comes looking for us, you tell them—”

“Tell them Draco took me up to hospital because I was feeling woozy after the dementors,” Harry interrupted.

Draco nodded approvingly. “Yeah, that should work,” he said. “You got that?”

Crabbe and Goyle nodded dutifully.

Draco looked at Harry, who was holding out the Invisibility Cloak expectantly. “I must be mental,” he said, and shook his head, but he walked over and joined Harry under the cloak. Once more they slipped out unseen into the hallways.

It was a much less eventful journey than the last had been. The hallways were totally deserted now; the only people left awake at Hogwarts seemed to be the ones searching the dark lawns for Sirius Black. Harry told Draco what had happened after he’d run outside in whispers as they crept upstairs. He paused before every corner and staircase to check the Marauder’s Map, making sure the hallways were as empty as they felt.

At last they reached the portrait that marked the hidden entrance to the Gryffindor common room. Harry banged hard on the frame, startling the woman in the painting awake.

“Who is it? What’s there?” she cried, sounding panicky. Harry and Draco said nothing; with the invisibility cloak over their heads, she couldn’t see them. He knocked on the frame harder, gritting his teeth. He didn’t know why Hermione had been so insistent on being told the details immediately; surely she was as tired as he was, and would rather have heard about it in the morning, after a good night’s sleep.

Finally the portrait swung open, the woman in the painting blithering nervously the whole time. Hermione glared out into the seemingly empty hallway. “I swear, Peeves, if this is your idea of a joke,” she muttered darkly. She looked tired. Peering past her, Harry could see a table stacked high with books and parchment, a single candle burning in the otherwise dim room. He gaped. Had she really gone back to do homework after she’d finished helping them with Sirius?

He shook off his confusion. “It’s me, Hermione!” he hissed. “Harry!”

“Harry!” Hermione dropped her voice to a whisper. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “Why can’t I see you?”

“I’m wearing my invisibility cloak, obviously,” Harry said. “Draco’s here too. We came to tell you what happened.”

“What happened when?” Hermione asked.

“When we all helped Sirius Black escape, of course!” Draco snapped. “You only made us promise to come tell you about a thousand times, you’d think you’d remember!”

“When we did _what?_ ” Hermione squeaked.

A rumbling sound made Harry look down. Crookshanks, purring loudly, rubbed against Hermione’s legs and then hopped up out of the portrait hall. The cat rubbed against his ankles, mussing the cloak, then sauntered down the hallway.

“Crookshanks come back!” Hermione hissed. The cat ignored her.

“Look, do you want to hear about it all or not?” Harry demanded. “I’m exhausted, we both are, and we’ve still got class tomorrow. You’re the one who insisted we tell you right away, so can we get it over with already so we can go to bed?”

“You made it sound like a matter of life and death,” Draco added sourly.

“I did what?” said Hermione, confused, but she climbed out of the portrait hole and let it swing closed behind her.

Harry eyed the portrait nervously. The woman in it was looking at Hermione curiously.

“Come on,” Harry muttered, “let’s go somewhere more private.”

He caught Hermione’s wrist. She squeaked at the invisible grip, but let him tug her down the hallway and around the corner. Crookshanks was there already, sprawled on a window ledge and washing one leg.

Harry yanked the cloak off. Hermione’s eyes got round. “Oh!” she gasped.

“Okay, what’s going on?” Harry asked her. “First you tell us that terrible things will happen if we don’t come find you _right away_ , then you forget all about it?”

“Forget all about what?” Hermione said.

“About helping us get Sirius Black out of the castle before the dementors Kissed him,” Draco said, scowling. “Are you some kind of an idiot all of a sudden?”

Hermione drew herself up with a frown, offended. “I beg your pardon,” she began, but Harry interrupted before they could start arguing.

“Look,” he said, “I’m tired. We’re all tired. Can we just get this over with?”

“Fine,” said Hermione.

“Well, what do you want to know first?” Harry asked.

“Why don’t you start at the beginning?” Hermione suggested.

“What beginning?” said Harry. “When you showed up with the rat out of nowhere, or when you came and let us out of Flitwick’s office? How did you know to do any of that?”

“When I did _what?_ ” Hermione squeaked.

“How do you not remember this?” Draco demanded. “It was barely two hours ago!”

Hermione’s expression went slack. “Oh no,” she whispered, “oh dear. But I wouldn’t have—I _couldn’t_ have. Did I? Oh _dear_.” She pressed her hands to her cheeks. “I think you’d better tell me _everything_ ,” she said heavily.

“That’s what I’m trying to do!” Harry exclaimed.

“Just—just start at the beginning, all right?”

Harry sighed, and did so. It was a difficult story to tell; he had to keep doubling-back to explain things that Hermione didn’t understand, despite that she had been right there when they had happened. Draco couldn’t resist chiming in with his own observations and reminders, too. It seemed like a terribly jumbled mess by the time they finished, and Hermione had been annoyingly demanding about making them remember the specific times that things had happened, but eventually the tale wound to a close.

“…and then Dumbledore told me he’d been impressed with my patronus, and he let me go, and I ran down to get Draco, and then we came up here. Like you made us promise to do.”

“Does _any_ of this sound familiar?” Draco asked. He sounded even more annoyed than Harry felt.

“Oh dear,” Hermione moaned. “I can’t believe I’m going to do that. What was I thinking?”

Harry and Draco exchanged a confused glance.

“Sorry, say what?” said Harry.

“Never mind,” Hermione said quickly. “Just—oh, I must have been mental. Must _be_ mental. To do all—all _that!_ When I promised I wouldn’t—oh! Oh no!” she cried suddenly, clapping her hands to her mouth.

“What now?” Draco whined.

Hermione turned pink. “Well, it’s just—I suppose I’d better accept Ron’s apology now, is all, being that I’m about to owe him one for stealing his rat…as well as an explanation.” She sighed. “Oh, if Professor McGonagall ever finds out what I’m about to have done….”

“What?” said Harry, still feeling lost.

Hermione lifted her chin. “Never you mind,” she said again. “Thank you very much for telling me, Harry—Draco. Now if you don’t mind, I have to go find Ron’s rat.”

“He got away,” Harry said. “Weren’t you listening? You’re the one who brought him to us!”

“Yes,” said Hermione, “I know I did, that’s why I have to do it.” She sighed again and muttered, “bother me.”

Without another word she turned around and walked back to her common room, shaking her head. Harry and Draco gaped at each other, then ran after her. They went sprawling as they turned the corner, Crookshanks coiled around their legs. By the time they scrambled to their feet the portrait had swung closed again and Hermione was gone. So was Crookshanks.

“Get back here you wretched beast!” Draco cried.

Harry just shook his head. It was starting to ache. “Forget it,” he told Draco. “I’m too tired to try and figure out what just happened. Let’s just go to bed.”

Draco grumbled, but he let Harry throw the cloak over their heads and lead the way back to the dungeons. By the time they got there he was yawning too hard to keep complaining. Harry remembered to take off his glasses and stuff his dad’s cloak into his trunk, then he collapsed on his bed, still fully dressed. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

 


	18. Truth and Reputation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry all, I meant to post this a few days ago but I'm an American so I was just too depressed. I promise I'll get the final wrap-up chapter posted shortly to finish the story without much more delay. Apologies!

Despite going to bed so late, Harry woke early. His nerves were humming, as if the excitement of the night had come back while he slept. He couldn’t remember dreaming, but vague images of men turning into dogs into rats and the Grim flying away on big black wings teased at his consciousness. Harry shook his head, crammed his glasses onto his nose, and left the dungeon at a trot. He didn’t even take the time to change, despite still being dressed in his clothes from the night before. There was only an hour until they started serving breakfast, and Harry was sure that Fudge would send someone from the Ministry to question him before classes. He wanted to talk to Professor Lupin first.

When he reached the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher’s office he hesitated a moment, but the sight of the rising sun outside the windows reassured him; besides, like he’d told Draco, the werewolf had been more afraid of them than they— _he_ —had been of it.

Harry knocked on the door and shoved it open without waiting for an answer.

“Professor Lupin!” he began urgently. “I have to talk to you about Sirius Black—”

Harry jerked to a stop and stared; Lupin wasn’t alone in his office. He sat on one side of his desk, a steaming tea kettle in front of him, and on the other side, in a squashy purple armchair that Harry didn’t remember seeing in here before, sat Professor Dumbledore. They both had teacups held to their lips and looked to have been in the middle of a cozy chat before Harry interrupted.

“Er—” he said, “that is, I mean…uh….”

“Harry, come in,” said Lupin, waving him forward and pulling out a third cup. Dumbledore drew his wand and conjured a second squashy armchair out of thin air. Harry approached nervously and eased himself down into the seat. It was solid and comfortable. He sank back into the cushions and looked back and forth between the two professors.

“Um,” he said, “sorry to barge in….”

“That is quite all right,” said Dumbledore with a small smile.

“We were just talking about you anyway,” said Lupin. His eyes fixed on Harry’s. “Tell me, did you really help Sirius escape? How did you manage that?”

Harry’s heart sank. He looked at Dumbledore and then back at Lupin. “Um,” he said.

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. “Don’t worry,” he assured Harry, “I’ve been having a terrible time with my hearing this morning. For some reason, I find myself going temporarily deaf whenever anyone mentions any rule breaking. It’s most inconvenient. I suppose I shall have to see Madam Pomfrey about it this afternoon if it doesn’t go away on its own before then.”

Harry gulped and bought himself some time to think by sipping at his tea. It was very hot. He grimaced and lowered his cup to his lap, then looked between the two professors again. They were both staring at him, Dumbledore with a cheerful smile on his face, Lupin looking tired and strained.

“Well,” Harry said, still feeling nervous, “it wasn’t what I meant to do, at first. I just wanted to, well to watch when, um, when the dementors….” He cleared his throat then continued defiantly, “I thought I deserved to, because it was his fault my parents were dead. Or I thought so then, anyway. So after you turned—er,” he swallowed and fell silent, glancing sideways at Professor Lupin.

“After I turned into a werewolf, you mean,” Lupin said calmly.

Dumbledore’s only reaction was to nod thoughtfully and sip his tea.

“Er—right,” said Harry. “Well after that we, um…well, my dad left me his invisibility cloak,” he explained to Lupin, who interrupted him to say, “Yes, Professor Dumbledore told me he passed that on to you. I imagine it’s come in very handy.”

Harry felt his cheeks flush. “Right. So we got that, Draco and I, so we could sneak up to Professor Flitwick’s office and—er—” He swallowed again.

“Oh dear,” said Dumbledore, “my ears seem to be acting up again. Can’t hear a thing.” He shook his head mournfully and poured himself more tea, fussing around with the milk and sugar as though uninterested in paying attention to anything else.

“I Stunned Professor Flitwick,” Harry said slowly, watching Dumbledore uncertainly; the headmaster didn’t even blink. It was like he really _had_ gone deaf. “We got into his office and found Sirius Black. He…he told us that he’d answer any questions I had, but only if we brought him the rat that I’d carried into the castle that afternoon. He wanted that one in particular, he was very specific.”

Lupin nodded. “Yes, he would have been,” he said to himself.

“Well, we…we went and got it from Hermione,” Harry said awkwardly, unsure how to explain what had happened when he didn’t understand it himself. He decided to be as vague and succinct as possible, and hope that no one asked for details. “We brought it back to Sirius, and he explained about—about how he’d switched with Peter Pettigrew, had him be my parents’ Secret Keeper instead, because he’d thought that no one would suspect him.”

“And none of us did,” Lupin said, with forced lightness. “A very clever ruse. Or it would have been—”

“If Pettigrew hadn’t been You-Know-Who’s spy, yeah,” Harry nodded. “That’s what Sirius told us, and it sounded crazy, but—but then Pettigrew turned back into himself,” he said quickly, deciding at the last minute that Dumbledore didn’t need to know anything about the Marauder’s Map if he didn’t already. “He got away from us. By the time we got out of Flitwick’s office, he was long gone.” Harry had to swallow a lump of black bile that rose in the back of his throat; several hours later, that still stung. He took a long drink of tea to try and wash the bitter taste from his mouth.

It didn’t work. He kept talking so he wouldn’t have to dwell on his misery: “We put the cloak over Sirius, slipped down to the dungeons, and got my Firebolt.” He winced, the regret over losing his broomstick less painful than that of letting Pettigrew escape, but still raw nonetheless. “Sirius got out through a window and flew away, and I—er—ran downstairs to distract the dementors.” He blushed again; that part of last night’s adventure sounded like a very bad idea when he said it out loud.

Instead of laughing at his foolishness, Lupin was nodding, looking proud. “Yes,” he said, “Dumbledore was just telling me about that. Very impressive work, Harry. A corporeal patronus.”

“It didn’t last,” Harry pointed out.

“But the fact that you could conjure one at all against six dementors—six!—is extraordinary,” Lupin said. Dumbledore nodded, apparently able to hear again. “I don’t know that I’ve ever been more impressed by any student, Harry,” Lupin continued. “That’s a remarkable feat. Did you notice what form it took?”

Harry looked at Dumbledore who said, “I fear that by the time we reached the grounds and got close enough to make out what was going on, it was already collapsing. I was too busy conjuring my own patronus to disperse the dementors to make note of the shape yours had taken.”

“It was a stag,” Harry said.

“No,” Lupin breathed. Harry looked at him curiously. Lupin cleared his throat. “Your father—his animagus form, when he transformed, he turned into a stag,” he explained, his tired eyes overbright.

Harry’s jaw dropped. “No way,” he said.

Lupin nodded. “Prongs, we called him.” There was a soft, distant smile on his lined face. “Prongs, Padfoot, Wormtail, and Moony—those were the nicknames we gave ourselves, after the others mastered the Animagus Transformation. Well, the others had been calling me ‘Moony’ for years before that,” he grinned, “but we decided on nicknames for the rest of them, once they could change too.”

“Messers. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs,” Harry said, awed.

Lupin smiled at him. “Yes,” he said. “That was us.”

Harry sat back in his chair, feeling overwhelmed.

Something suddenly occurred to him and he sat forward again, turning to stare sharply at the headmaster. “This means you believe me,” he said. “You believe Sirius is innocent.”

“I do,” said Dumbledore. “I began to suspect something was not quite right last night, when Sirius did not try to kill you in the hallway, despite having a very good opportunity to do so. When he gave Professor Lupin those coded instructions, my suspicions increased.”

“I don’t think he was trying to be oblique,” Lupin said apologetically.

“Nevertheless.” Dumbledore shrugged. “It was enough to make me curious, when you ran off in such a hurry rather than helping us to restrain him. There wasn’t much to be done about it at the time, but I was intrigued enough to let Sirius speak his piece after we got him secured. He told a very interesting story. An unbelievable, almost impossible story—but one that could not be ignored. I needed more time, so I did what I could to delay Cornelius, and went to question Professor Lupin to see if he could back up any of his old friend’s claims.” He shrugged at Harry. “Of course, I knew that Professor Lupin would have taken on his wolfen form by then, but thanks to the potion that Professor Snape has been brewing for him, I also knew that he would be in his right, human mind. He could not talk, but he could listen, and answer as best he could with a wolf’s limited vocabulary.”

Harry didn’t see any reason to mention that he already knew some of that from eavesdropping on Dumbledore and the Minister at the door. He nodded thoughtfully. “So how long have you knows that Professor Lupin was a werewolf?” he asked, then darted a guilty look at Lupin, wondering if he shouldn’t have mentioned it.

“Oh, ever since he came to school here as a boy,” said Dumbledore.

“It was because of Dumbledore that I could come to Hogwarts,” Lupin explained. “I was bit when I was a very small boy, and my parents hadn’t thought that I would be allowed to attend Hogwarts because of it. Werewolves,” he said with a thin smile, “are not generally accepted by the Wizarding World.”

Harry started to feel worried. “They aren’t?” he asked.

Lupin shook his head and shrugged, trying to act casual, as though it hardly mattered. “Well, Dumbledore thought it worth letting me come to school anyway, as long as certain precautions were taken. You had a run-in with one of them early this year, I understand.” He smiled a little more naturally and explained, “The Whomping Willow?”

“Oh,” said Harry. He blinked. “But how would that—?”

“They planted the Willow to conceal a passageway to Hogsmeade,” Lupin said. “It comes out in the Shrieking Shack, which is where I spent the full moons. I fear that I’m the reason the villagers believed the place to be haunted. My transformations in those days were—terrible.” He grimaced and sipped his tea. “With nothing else to bite or scratch, I attacked myself. The Wolfsbane Potion, which allows me to keep my human mind when I transform, is a very recent invention. There was no such thing when I was a boy.”

“Oh,” said Harry, very quietly.

Lupin suddenly dropped his gaze, looking ashamed. “It was because of me that Sirius, James, and Peter became Animagi,” he said, his voice rough. “They wanted to help me, to keep me company. A werewolf is only a danger to humans, not animals.” He glanced up at Dumbledore, and then down again, very quickly. “It was incredibly foolish, dangerous, and reckless,” he continued harshly. “We are inexplicably lucky that no one was hurt. I should never have let them do it. It was a great abuse of the trust that Professor Dumbledore had placed in me by allowing me to come to Hogwarts.”

“There now, Remus, there’s no sense in berating yourself for things long done,” Dumbledore said kindly. “We are all prone to foolish mistakes in our youth.”

Harry wondered what kind of foolishness Dumbledore could have ever been party to. He couldn’t imagine anything of note, but he wasn’t going to protest the headmaster’s statement now, when Lupin was looking so miserable.

“I was a coward then,” Lupin said, his voice soft and ragged, “and a coward now. I should have told Dumbledore about Sirius’s Animagus powers immediately, or even confessed it directly to the Ministry.”

“They are not likely to have believed you,” Dumbledore said.

Lupin sighed. “I know,” he said, “but I still should have done it.”

Dumbledore nodded agreement. Harry looked between them both, feeling confused again. “Why wouldn’t they have believed you?” he asked.

“The word of a werewolf?” Lupin’s voice was bitter. “I could tell them that the sky was blue and they’d have told me to stop making up tales. Three unregistered teenage Animagi running around Hogwarts, all done in order to help someone like me? And no proof of any of it? They’d have thought I was making up lies for my own sake, trying to gain some kind of influence or advantage—or reward!”

Harry frowned, but Lupin wasn’t done talking: “But I didn’t even try. I had convinced myself, you see, that Sirius was using some other means of getting into the school. That he was using Dark powers taught to him by Voldemort, that it had nothing to do with my secrets. I didn’t want to admit that I had betrayed Dumbledore’s trust, so I continued to betray it.”

“And it is just as well that you did,” Dumbledore said stoutly. “We might never have learned the truth about Sirius and Peter if you had told me earlier.”

Lupin nodded reluctantly, but he still looked miserable.

Harry waited for one of them to continue. When neither spoke, he said, “But what about Pettigrew? Have you talked to the Ministry yet?”

“Ah,” said Dumbledore, his kindly expression going closed, “we have not. I believe that Cornelius intends to dispatch an Auror to speak with you this morning, in fact. Now that you have recovered from your ordeal, the Ministry will want your full story of how Sirius Black escaped after Confunding you and leaving you behind to distract the dementors so he could make his getaway.”

Harry frowned. “But that’s not what happened,” he said.

“It is what Cornelius and his Aurors have decided happened,” said Dumbledore.

“But after I tell them the truth—” Harry began.

“If you tell them the truth,” said Dumbledore.

Harry stared. “I don’t understand,” he said.

Lupin busied himself with the tea kettle. Dumbledore leaned forward and met Harry’s eyes. “The Ministry does not take kindly to being told that they have erred,” he said heavily. “They especially do not take such accusations lightly when the one making them can provide no proof of what they say.”

“But—but I saw Peter Pettigrew,” said Harry.

“Did you?” Dumbledore asked lightly. “Or did Sirius Black _convince_ you that you saw him?”

Harry frowned. “I know what I saw,” he said hotly. “I thought you believed me.”

“I do,” said Dumbledore. “But will the Ministry?” He shrugged.

“Are you saying I shouldn’t tell them?” Harry asked, dumbfounded.

“I am not,” replied Dumbledore. “I am simply telling you that you may not be believed. It is entirely up to you what you tell Cornelius’s agents, and what you do not. I merely wish you to be aware of what you are risking when you make that decision.”

“I don’t understand,” Harry said slowly.

“He means that if you throw in your lot with a convicted murderer and a werewolf,” Lupin said with a sour smile, “you may tarnish your reputation with the Ministry of Magic beyond repair.”

Harry scowled. “So what?” he asked. “What do I care about my reputation? Sirius is innocent.”

Dumbledore smiled. “So he is,” he said.

“Besides,” Harry added darkly, “if they keep chasing Sirius, they won’t be looking for Pettigrew, and he’s the one who really got my mum and dad killed. Why would I let him get away with that, just to make sure the Ministry keeps liking me?”

“Ah.” Dumbledore’s gaze flickered. “There is that, too,” he admitted neutrally.

Harry scowled into his tea. “Well then,” he said, as if that settled everything.

“And if they don’t take your word for it?” Lupin asked. He sounded more curious than anything, but also a little sad.

“Then I’ll get Draco’s dad to tell them,” Harry announced. “He’s got a lot of influence at the Ministry. They’ll believe _him_ when he tells them, I bet.”

“They might,” Dumbledore said lightly, and cleared his throat, “although the fact that Sirius is family may count against his objectivity…as may other factors.”

“Like what?” Harry asked.

Dumbledore hesitated, then said slowly, “Sirius Black is not the only one of his family to have been accused of being one of Lord Voldemort’s supporters. Draco’s eldest aunt currently resides in Azkaban, for one, and I fear that there can be no doubts about _her_ guilt being genuine. She was quite happy to confess to her crimes.”

Harry’s mouth fell open. Draco had never mentioned that—but, Harry thought, could he blame his friend for wanting to keep something like that quiet?

“So you think they won’t listen to Mr. Malfoy because they’ll think he’s just trying to help out a relative?” Harry asked, disappointed. “But Sirius got kicked out of the family ages ago, Draco told me.”

“When he was sixteen, yes,” Lupin said. He hesitated as well, then added, “I fear that Sirius never really got along with his parents—or his cousins. They developed very different views about…a great many things. Blood-purity, for instance.” He smiled. “Werewolves, too. I’m quite lucky that Sirius respected my secret enough to keep it even when he lost his temper with his family. I’m sure he would have loved to see their faces when he announced that he was friends with someone like me.”

Harry scratched his head. “What would they have done?” he asked, getting a very bad feeling about the gossip that was probably going through the school right now. He had thought that everyone was just surprised to learn that their Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was secretly a werewolf. He hadn’t realized that it would _matter_.

“Kicked him out sooner, maybe?” Lupin suggested. “Possibly just forbidden him from seeing me—which would have only made my friendship more appealing to Sirius, I’m afraid. Regardless, he left when he was sixteen, saying he simply couldn’t stand it anymore. Your father’s parents took him in after that,” he added, making Harry gape.

“Really?” he said. He grinned, imagining what that must have been like, having your best friend in the same house as you—and with parents who cared enough about you to invite him to stay, too.

Lupin nodded. “They were very kind people, the Potters. I’m sorry you never got to meet them.”

Harry slumped back in his chair, sorry as well, but sorrier still that he didn’t know his mother or father. Now it looked like his godfather might slip away as well—but not if Harry could do anything to prevent it. Frowning with determination, he sat up again.

“Well,” he said, “even if the Ministry doesn’t want to listen to me, I’m going to tell them the truth. I promised Sirius that I would, and maybe they’ll believe me. I am the Boy Who Lived, after all, and that’s got to carry some weight—right?” he asked, his confidence wilting.

“Indeed it does,” said Dumbledore, “although I fear that in this case it may not be enough. Still, we’ll never know unless you try, will we?” He stood up, placing his empty tea cup on Lupin’s desk. “Very well Harry, let us go face your fate.”

Harry rose as well, setting aside his tea half-drunk. Something stirred in his memory. _Face your fate_ …Professor Trelawney’s prediction!

“Professor Dumbledore—yesterday, in our Divination Class, Professor Trelawney went very—very strange.”

“Indeed?” said Dumbledore. “Er—stranger than usual, you mean?”

“Yes…her voice went all deep and her eyes rolled and she said…she said You-Know-Who’s servant was going to set out to return to him before midnight….She said the servant would help him come back to power.” Harry stared up at Dumbledore. “And then she sort of became normal again, and she couldn’t remember anything she’d said. Was it—was she making a real prediction?”

Dumbledore looked mildly impressed.

“Do you know, Harry, I think she might have been,” he said thoughtfully. “Who’d have thought it? That brings her total of real predictions up to two. I should offer her a pay raise….”

“But—” Harry looked up at him, aghast, then over at Lupin, who was staring. How could Dumbledore take this so calmly?

“But that means that Pettigrew is going to help bring Vold—You-Know-Who back to power! We have to convince the Ministry to hunt him down before he can!” Harry felt frantic and looked around the room, as though expecting Voldemort to jump out of a cabinet or closet.

“Harry, Harry, calm down,” Dumbledore said, placing a restraining hand on Harry’s arm. “If you go into your conversation with the Ministry like that, no one will take a word you say seriously. You will have to be calm and in control of yourself if you want to have any hope of convincing them that you are telling the truth.”

Harry glared at Dumbledore, as though it was his fault that Pettigrew had escaped, then took a deep breath and tried to reign his feelings in. “Okay,” he said. “Sorry, professor. I’m all right now.”

Dumbledore patted his shoulder. “Very well, Harry,” he said. “Then let us not put it off any further. Remus, I will see you for breakfast.”

“Oh—yes,” said Lupin, looking startled. “Yes of course, headmaster. And Harry—good luck.”

Harry forced a smile for Professor Lupin, then let Dumbledore guide him out of the office. They walked up several flights of stairs and paused in front of the stone gargoyle that guarded the headmaster’s office. “Peppermint Toads,” said Dumbledore, and the carved stone slid smoothly aside to reveal a rising spiral staircase. Harry fought down the urge to run up the stairs and instead matched Dumbledore’s sedate stride. Inside the office Dumbledore left Harry by his desk and walked over to the large hearth at the far side of the room. He pointed his wand at the logs in the fireplace which went up at once in bright, large flames, as though the fire had been burning for several hours. Then he took a handful of powder from a small jar on the mantle and threw it in the fire, which immediately turned green.

Harry gasped, then gasped again as Dumbledore knelt down stiffly and thrust his head into the fire. The headmaster did not ignite. He kept his head in the middle of the green flames for several seconds, then drew back, looking satisfied. He rose and dusted his hands off, then turned to face Harry with a smile. Behind him the fire crackled back to its usual orangey-red hue. “Floo powder,” he explained. “It allows one to travel between fireplaces, but can also be used for quick communication if one does not step across the hearth completely. A somewhat disconcerting feeling, but one becomes used to it, and it is sometimes more convenient than owls.”

Harry nodded dumbly, still slackjawed.

Dumbledore walked around his desk and seated himself there as if nothing extraordinary had happened. “Now,” he said, “as I think this interview may possibly run long….” He clapped his hands and with a sharp CRACK, a house elf draped in a toga made out of a tea towel appeared. Harry was too nervous even to be surprised. “A bit of breakfast, if you please,” Dumbledore told the elf. “Pastries, muffins—easy to eat foods that can be held in the hand. And some pumpkin juice. Four—better make it five goblets, just in case.”

The elf bowed and vanished.

“There you are, Harry,” Dumbledore said, smiling cheerfully. “Come and have a bite to eat.”

A platter of baked goods—fruit and cheese tarts, savory bridies, currant and pumpkin muffins, and a curled danish that reeked of nutmeg—and an icy pitcher of juice had appeared on the headmaster’s desk. Harry numbly took the chair that Dumbledore waved him to, but he kept turning around to glance at the fire. After a few minutes it turned green again. Harry could see something dark revolving in it, growing gradually larger. Then a man stumbled out and brushed soot off his robes. He was followed by another figure, this one instantly recognizable by his lime green bowler hat and pinstriped cloak: Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic.

Fudge looked around the room, then smiled at Harry. He looked tired but his voice was cheerful as he called, “Harry, my boy! Feeling better this morning, I hope?”

“Yes, Minister,” Harry said, “thank you, Minister.”

“Harry, this is Kingsley Shacklebolt, one of our best Aurors. He’s in charge of the hunt for Sirius Black.”

“Under your direction, of course,” said Auror Shacklebolt. Harry couldn’t tell from his tone if he was flattering Fudge of censuring him for meddling. He recognized Shacklebolt as the tall, deep-voiced wizard who had been the lone source of calm among the Ministry’s people on the grounds last night. He smiled nervously up at the Auror, noticing as he did so the glint of gold from a single hoop worn in one of Shacklebolt’s ears. “Hullo,” said Harry.

Shacklebolt nodded gravely. “A pleasure to meet you, Harry. Good morning, Albus.”

“Kingsley, Cornelius. Won’t you be seated?” Dumbledore waved at the pastries. “Help yourself to a bite to eat. Go on, Harry, you too.”

Harry obediently took a cheese tart but he was too nervous to eat it. Fudge and Schackelbolt joined him in the three chairs in front of Dumbledore’s desk, Shacklebolt turning his so he could look more directly at Harry. “We don’t want to take up too much of your time this morning, Harry,” Shacklebolt said, before Fudge could do more than open his mouth. “Why don’t you just tell us what happened in your own words, starting from the beginning? As much as you can remember.”

“I remember everything,” Harry said. He also remembered Dumbledore’s advice to be calm, and forced himself to take a long drink of pumpkin juice before he spoke: “It started when my friends and I were returning to the castle from Hagrid’s. We had found the pet rat of—er, of one of our friends,” he said, deciding that it would take too much time to explain the relationship between himself and Ron Weasley. “It had gone missing a while ago and everyone thought it was dead, so we were excited to bring it back, but on the way we were chased by a big black dog. We didn’t know it at the time of course, but that was Sirius Black.”

“As I explained last night,” Dumbledore broke in smoothly, “the dog was recognized by one of my professors, who informed me immediately of Black’s secret Animagus talents.”

“Which you should have told the Ministry about right away,” Fudge said, sounding testy. “How we can be expected to conduct a proper manhunt when information is withheld—”

“And as I also told you last night,” Dumbledore said loudly, “Professor Lupin had quite naturally assumed that Sirius Black was using Dark powers taught to him by Voldemort, rather than his old schoolboy skills, to evade Ministry detection. He explained the entire situation to me the moment he realized otherwise, and the reason the Ministry was not informed promptly enough for your tastes, Cornelius, is because we were busy securing the castle against Black’s inevitable return—and just in time we were, too, but you know that, because we sent word the moment we had him secured. Please go on, Harry,” he added, before the Minister could reply.

Fudge sat back in his chair, but he didn’t look happy.

“Yes,” said Shacklebolt, “I’m very interested to know how you got mixed up in everything last night, Harry.”

“It was because I wanted to see Sirius Black receive the Dementor’s Kiss,” Harry explained bluntly. “I’d heard how he was the one who had betrayed my parents, and I wanted justice.”

All three adults nodded, Fudge nervously, the other two looking calm but interested.

“Well, I found him alone in Professor Flitwick’s office—”

“What happened to Professor Flitwick, Harry?” Fudge asked. “When we revived him, he said that—well, he said that he thought that _you_ were the one who—”

“Minister, please,” Shacklebolt interrupted softly, “let Harry tell it in his own words.”

Fudge subsided again, muttering to himself. Harry swallowed and told them, “I Stupefied him, actually. Professor Flitwick, I mean. I know I shouldn’t have, but….” He shrugged, ducking his head. “I wasn’t thinking clearly, I guess.” He hoped that admitting that himself now would stop Fudge or Shacklebolt from accusing him of it later. “Anyway, I broke into the office, and I confronted Sirius Black. He promised to answer any of my questions if I brought him the rat that I’d taken into the castle earlier.”

“The rat?” Shacklebolt’s eyebrows raised. “Interesting,” he said. He helped himself to a muffin, which made Harry feel better. He even managed to eat a few bites of his tart, although it was like swallowing sawdust.

He nodded at the Auror. “Well, we went to Gryffindor Tower to get the rat—that is, Draco and I, he had come along with me, Draco Malfoy. He’s a friend, and he wanted to help.” Harry glanced at Fudge to make sure the Minister had made note of his friend’s last name, then continued: “So we got the rat, and we returned to Sirius, and he told us…well, he told us everything.”

Harry paused, unsure of how to share so much information without it turning into a jumble. He looked beseechingly at Dumbledore and the headmaster stirred.

“Before you get into any details about the past, Harry, I think it might make things easier if you simply told what happened to you next. We can go back and get the full backstory once you’re done.”

Harry frowned, not sure he liked that idea, but he nodded reluctantly. “All right,” he said. “Well, Sirius convinced us to help him escape, so we sneaked him downstairs. Since there were dementors at the front door, we used a window instead. I gave Sirius my broomstick, and he flew away. Then I ran outside to distract the dementors—”

“WHAT?” Fudge sputtered, slack-jawed, staring at Harry.

Shacklebolt coughed. Harry looked at him suspiciously; for a moment he’d thought the Auror had laughed, but his face was deadly serious as he watched Harry, waiting for the rest of the story.

“I’ve been learning how to cast a patronus from Professor Lupin,” Harry explained, “on account of the dementors affecting me so much worse than they do other people. I can hear my parents being murdered by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named when they get too close, you know,” he added casually. Fudge blanched and even Shacklebolt’s dark cheeks paled. Harry bit the inside of his lip to suppress a satisfied smile; he had been wondering how best to remind them that he was The Boy Who Lived. “Well, you know what happened next: I held the dementors off long enough for you all to run outside and see what was going on, and then….” He shrugged and picked at his tart.

“But—but—but!” Fudge was still sputtering. “But why on earth would you do something like that!” he exclaimed.

Harry met the Minister’s eyes firmly and said, “Because Sirius Black is innocent. He didn’t betray my parents, and he never worked for You-Know-Who. Someone else did, and it was him that Sirius came here to kill, not me.”

A long, ringing silence met that extraordinary pronouncement.

“Preposterous,” Fudge murmured at last. He turned on the headmaster with a frown. “Dumbledore, you said that Harry was recovered! The boy is obviously still suffering the effects of a Confundus Charm!”

“He is not,” Dumbledore said, and shook his head. “Perform your own examination if you wish, Cornelius, but I tell you: Harry is not Confunded, and he never was.”

Fudge scowled and gestured imperiously; Shacklebolt rose and drew his wand. “With your permission?” he asked Harry, stepping forward. Harry nodded, feeling very nervous despite the calm tone of Shacklebolt’s voice. He waved his wand over Harry’s head three times, then turned back to Fudge and shook his head.

“Preposterous!” Fudge repeated weakly, sinking back in his chair.

Shacklebolt holstered his wand and resumed his seat, still wearing an expression of polite interest. “I should very much like to know how you came to this conclusion, Harry,” he said.

Dumbledore spoke first, and although he spoke to Harry, it was Fudge and Shacklebolt that he looked at. “I think this next part, Harry, you had best go through as plainly as you can, as it was told to you. Minister, Kingsley, if you could restrain yourselves from interrupting until Harry finishes this part of his story, I think it will all go much more smoothly.”

“Of course,” said Shacklebolt. He selected a blackberry tart this time and settled back comfortably in his chair, but his sharp eyes never left Harry’s face. Fudge just nodded, looking both dazed and resentful.

Harry cleared his throat. “Sirius wasn’t my mum and dad’s Secret Keeper,” he explained. “They pulled a switch at the last minute, to make things even safer. Everyone would have assumed that Sirius would be the one to do it, so he talked their friend Peter Pettigrew into doing it instead, because Sirius said that nobody would suspect Peter.”

“Peter Pettigrew?” Fudge exclaimed, but fell silent when Dumbledore frowned at him.

Harry nodded. “Yeah, Peter Pettigrew. He was the secret Secret Keeper, only he was already spying for You-Know-Who at the time, so he turned my mum and dad over. And they died.” He had to swallow against a sudden lump in his throat. When he resumed speaking, his voice was rough: “Sirius knew that it had to have been Peter who betrayed them, so he went looking for him, but when he found Pettigrew, he blew up the street and faked his death. He was an Animagus too, Pettigrew was—a rat.” Harry let that sink-in for a moment. “The same rat that I’d found in Hagrid’s hut earlier that evening, the one that Sirius had seen me carrying, and had chased after us trying to catch. Sirius had discovered that Pettigrew was at Hogwarts because of a newspaper article that _you_ had given him, Minister, and he was afraid that Pettigrew would hurt me—or kill me—the minute he heard that You-Know-Who was getting strong again, so he came here to kill Pettigrew before he could. That’s why he kept trying to break into Gryffindor Tower, because he wasn’t after me at all: he was after Peter Pettigrew.

“And he almost got him,” Harry added miserably, “but we let him escape. I saw him myself, Minister,” he added earnestly, shifting forward on his chair to stare at Fudge. “He transformed right in front of me and Draco, and he ran off. We couldn’t get out of Flitwick’s office in time to catch him. We don’t know where he went, but please—you have to call off the hunt for Sirius, and tell everybody to start looking for Peter Pettigrew instead. He’s the real murderer.”

There was another, even longer silence. After a while Fudge said, his voice gentle, “Harry…Harry, my boy….You’ve clearly been through quite a lot in a very short time. I don’t hold it against you at all, my boy, it’s completely understandable—but you’re not thinking clearly, obviously. Sirius Black is a very clever person, he fooled a number of very powerful wizards and witches for a long time, including Professor Dumbledore here! I don’t blame you at all for believing this far-fetched story when he told it to you, but—”

“It’s not far-fetched,” Harry interrupted heatedly, “or all right, I guess it is a bit, but it’s also true. Minister, I saw Pettigrew! I saw him!”

Fudge nodded sympathetically, but his gaze was no longer on Harry; he was watching Dumbledore, as if wondering why the headmaster was letting Harry go on like this.

Shacklebolt, on the other hand, was starring right at Harry, his expression thoughtful as he stroked his chin with one hand. “Did Black give you any explanation for why Pettigrew would have stayed in hiding for twelve years?” he asked.

“He was hiding from his old allies,” Harry said. “The rest of You-Know-Who’s supporters, they blamed Pettigrew for what happened when he tried to kill me. If they’d known he was still alive, they would have wanted to kill him themselves. Sirius said that he heard a lot of them screaming about it at night in Azkaban. You could go ask them about it,” he said boldly, “if you don’t believe me. I bet there’s a few of them there who would be willing to tell you the truth, if only because they’d enjoy laughing at you for arresting an innocent man.”

“Ask the Death Eaters?” Fudge exclaimed. “Absurd! They’re all mad by now! So is Black, for that matter, Harry! You can’t believe a thing he told you—”

“Can I believe my own eyes?” Harry retorted. “Because like I said, I _saw_ Pettigrew. So did Draco. He changed from a rat to a man right in front of us, and then he ran away. If he was innocent, why would he have spent twelve years hiding as a rat? And why would he have run away from me? Sirius was locked-up and about to be Kissed by the dementors, he couldn’t hurt him. So why did he flee?”

Fudge couldn’t answer that. He cast about for something else to say, and settled on, “But Harry—you’ve got to understand, there were witnesses that saw Black kill Pettigrew. I myself was one of the first on the scene—”

“All you saw was what Pettigrew wanted you to see,” Harry said bluntly. “Pettigrew cast that curse over his shoulder and ran off into the sewer as a rat. By the time you got there he was long gone.”

Fudge was shaking his head, clearly not believing him. Harry might have lost his temper then, but he saw that Shacklebolt was listening closely, and he looked a lot more interested in what Harry was saying than Fudge did. “The biggest bit of Pettigrew anyone could find was his finger,” Shacklebolt observed.

“Yeah,” said Harry, “and you can live without your finger, easy. You can ask Weasley if you want, he’ll tell you that his rat was missing a toe.”

Fudge was still shaking his head. He was muttering to himself too, things like “impossible” and “ridiculous” and  “poor boy” and “addled.” Harry clenched his fists. “You have to believe me, Minister,” he snapped. “You’re chasing the wrong man. Sirius is innocent, and while you waste time hunting him, you’re letting Pettigrew get farther and farther away! Who knows what evil he’s cooking up now that he’s been forced to go on the run?”

“My dear boy—”

“Did Black mention how he managed to escape Azkaban in the first place?” Shacklebolt interrupted them both.

“By turning into a dog,” Harry said. “If you’re an Animagus you don’t need a wand to transform, so he could do that even though the dementors were all around him. And he didn’t lose his mind because he knew he was innocent, he said, but that wasn’t a happy thought so the dementors couldn’t take it. When he found out that Pettigrew was here with me, he turned into a dog, slipped through the bars, and swam to the mainland.”

Shacklebolt’s eyebrows raised again. “Through the North Sea?” he asked.

Harry shrugged. “I guess,” he said. “I didn’t really ask where Azkaban is….”

“That’s an impressive feat,” said Shacklebolt.

Fudge glared at him. “Surely that only makes this story he fed the boy all the more preposterous!” he snapped.

Shacklebolt shrugged. “I’m just trying to gather as much information as I can, Minister,” he replied calmly. “You say he got away from Hogwarts on broomstick. Did he have a wand?”

Harry’s heart sank. “No,” he said, wishing that he had thought to find a way to arm Sirius before he had sent him away. “Just my Firebolt.”

That made Shacklebolt start. “You have a Firebolt?” he asked.

“Had,” correct Harry, miserably.

Shacklebolt stroked his chin. “I see,” he said. “Well, I think we’ve heard all we need to from Harry, at least for now. We may have more questions once we’ve looked into things a little more, of course, but I’m all done with him for now. Minister?”

Fudge goggled at Shacklebolt. “You don’t—surely you don’t believe this poppycock?” he squeaked.

Shacklebolt shrugged. “I’m not sure what to believe at the moment, but I’ve certainly got plenty of things to look into. I’ll get the rest of the team to work on uncovering everything we can right away. Oh, and if you’ll take my advice, Minister? I think we have far too many questions to risk letting them go unanswered. I suggest removing the ‘Kiss on sight’ part of Black’s wanted status. We clearly need him alive and cognizant, if only to clear up all this confusion.”

Fudge drew himself up in his seat and scowled. “Now see here, Kingsley, you may be in charge of the hunt for Black, but I’m still in charge of the Ministry!”

“Of course,” said Shacklebolt soothingly, “but as the Auror in charge of this case, it is my duty to recommend what I think of as the best course of action. Whether you take my advice is, of course, up to you to decide.”

“I have often found,” Dumbledore chimed in, “that taking the time to gather more information will rarely go amiss. And things that cannot be undone should never be done in haste.”

Fudge looked back and forth between the two of them, clearly feeling attacked and outnumbered.

Harry held his breath and crossed his fingers behind his back.

“Very well!” Fudge croaked. He lurched to his feet. “Do it your way, then, Kingsley, but Merlin help you if you don’t get results! Fast results! We can’t leave the public in a panic with nothing to show for it, you know! Now if you’ll excuse me, Dumbledore, Harry, I have a very busy day to get back to!” He nodded tersely at the headmaster, frowned uncertainly at Harry, and stomped back to the fireplace.

Shacklebolt rose and gave Dumbledore a polite nod. “Albus,” he said, “a pleasure as always. And thanks for the snack. Harry, lovely to meet you. I’ll be in touch if we have any further questions, all right?”

Harry nodded and watched as the two men climbed into the green fire and vanished. He turned back to Dumbledore and slumped in his seat. “It didn’t work,” he said.

“Did it not?” Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. “It seems to me that you convinced two men who were very certain of the evidence against Sirius Black to re-open the case, even if only reluctantly in one case. That is a great step in the right direction, Harry, and you should not undersell your accomplishment. Sirius is still free, thanks to you, and still in possession of both his soul and his mind; another great accomplishment. You have cast doubt on the long-accepted record of events, and whether the Auror Office ultimately decides that your claims have merit or not, you have forced them to investigate those claims. The wheels of justice do not always turn fast, and they do not always turn in the right direction, but you have started them moving. I think you can be proud of that.” He nodded at Harry approvingly and then said, “And now, I think you had best hurry to class, if you do not want to be late.”

Harry blinked, feeling like he’d just been hit in the chest by a Bludger, then rose to his feet. “I guess it’s better than nothing,” he admitted, and turned to go. “Thanks, professor.” He paused and added miserably, “I really am sorry about Stupefying Professor Flitwick, you know.”

“I do know,” said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling. “And I am sure that Professor Flitwick will be forgiving when you explain your remorse to him as well. You have Charms later this morning, don’t you? You won’t have to wait long to make your apologies, then.” He settled back in his chair with a pleased smile on his face.

Harry groaned and left the headmaster’s office.

 

Breakfast was over by the time Harry made it downstairs; he was glad for the pastries he’d eaten in Dumbledore’s office, but disappointed to have missed the flurry of rumors that must have filled the Great Hall after all of yesterday’s excitement. He grabbed his school bag and ran to the North Tower.

He was the last Slytherin to arrive in Divination and he collapsed, panting, onto the empty poof next to Draco. “Where _were_ you?” his friend hissed. Before Harry could explain, Professor Trelawney stepped forward out of the heavy air and clapped her hands. “Good morning, class!” she said. “Today it behooves us to turn our attention to—”

She stopped talking and looked around, bemused. Every single hand was up in the air, even Crabbe and Goyle’s, although Harry suspected that they were just copying Draco.

“Good heavens,” said Professor Trelawney, “what’s all this? Millicent dear, please explain,” she said, pointing to one of her most devoted students.

Millicent looked around nervously, then climbed to her feet. She cleared her throat and said, “It’s about the prophecy you made yesterday, professor. The one about the Dark Lord’s servant?”

“What nonsense,” Trelawney snapped, with no trace of her usual misty tones. “I don’t know what sort of joke you all are playing, but honestly Millicent, I’m disappointed to see you of all people going along with it. I thought you had the makings of a true Seer.” She clicked her tongue sadly and Millicent sank down onto her poof, her wide face stricken.

“She’s not making it up.” Harry hadn’t realized he was going to speak until the words were already out of his mouth. Everyone turned to stare at him so he stood up, ignoring Draco’s attempt to tug him back to his seat. “We all heard you: you said the Dark Lord’s servant would leave to rejoin him last night, and—”

“And Sirius Black broke into the castle last night, and he escaped!” It was Daphne who had interrupted him, her voice shrill, but she was soon joined by the rest of the class, all talking loudly over one another:

“He almost killed twelve students!”

“He Cursed Professor Flitwick! He almost died!”

“He tried to kill my little sister!”

“He’s a werewolf, and he turned Professor Lupin into one!”

“He’s going to bring back the Dark Lord and take over the Ministry!”

“I hear he’s already raising an army!”

“He fought three Aurors on his way out!”

“And twenty dementors!”

Professor Trelawney had to shout three times for quiet before she got it. She was breathing heavily by the time they all settled down, and the glare she turned on them held none of her usual dreaminess. “Well!” she snapped. “I can see that it was a very exciting evening.” She sniffed and drew her shawls tighter around her shoulders. “Of course,” she continued, in something closer to her usual lofty tones, “I foresaw that, but to tamper with the workings of fate is not something to be undertaken lightly. All too often, a Seer can do nothing but let events play-out as they will, and weep for those lost.”

“What else did you see, professor?” Lilian asked breathlessly. “Do you know how Black is going to help You-Know-Who return? Is there any way to prevent it?”

Half the class echoed her question, and even Draco leaned forward with interest to hear Professor Trelawney’s answer.

“Oh, my children,” Trelawney said, flinging a hand to her forehead, “you should not ask such things. You do not want such dark portents to poison your lives too soon. No, the worst the future has in store is too heavy a weight to bear, I dare not share it with you!”

She collapsed heavily in her favorite plush chair. Lilian and Millicent leapt to her side, followed quickly by the rest of the class, all of them fluttering over the swooning Divination professor and prodding her for more information. Harry scowled and lurched to his feet.

“It isn’t true!” he said loudly. No one was listening. “I said it isn’t true, Sirius Black isn’t working for You-Know-Who. He never was! He—”

A pointed boot kicked him sharply in the ankle. “ _Hsst!_ ” said Draco. “Shut-up!”

Harry dropped back into his seat and glared at Draco. “But they’re saying that Sirius—”

“I know,” Draco hissed back, “But do you want to look like a crazy person? Wait until the official verdict comes from the Ministry announcing his innocence. Otherwise everyone will just think you’ve gone mental if you go around saying things like that.”

Harry rubbed his ankle. “But it isn’t _true_ ,” he protested.

“I know!” Draco said. “And so do you. But they don’t. Nobody else was there.”

“That’s why I have to tell them—”

“Why?” Draco interrupted brusquely. “Who cares what they think? They’re wrong, and we know better. But it’s not like they’ve got any influence with the Ministry, so even if they did believe you—which they probably wouldn’t anyway—what good would it do you to spend your time convincing them?” He shook his head. “Save your breath and save your reputation. That will do you more good in the long run than convincing a bunch of useless, gullible sods that your god-father was innocent.”

Harry frowned, thinking. “It doesn’t seem right,” he said slowly, “letting them say things about Sirius that aren’t true, when I know they’re wrong.”

Draco shrugged. “Look, if you want to make a spectacle of yourself over a matter of principle, go ahead. But I think you’ll be able to do Sirius a lot more good if you keep quiet now and save your arguments for when they’ll actually be able to make a difference. If everybody starts talking about how you’ve gone off the deep-end and are spouting nonsense, no one at the Ministry is going to take you seriously.”

Harry chewed on his lip. What Draco said made sense, but that didn’t make him feel any better about having to listen to his classmates talk about his god-father’s crimes. He was still stewing about it when they climbed back down the ladder and returned to the rest of the school, so that when he reached Charms he had almost forgotten about the apology he owed Professor Flitwick.

Harry blanched, ducked his head, and took a seat all the way in the back of the room where he could avoid meeting Flitwick’s eye. Harry barely heard a word of the lesson—fortunately a review of topics they might expect to see on their exams rather than any new spells, which he would never have been able to concentrate on—and when the bell rang at the end of class he jumped up right away. Harry tried to slip out the door with the rest of the Slytherins, a muttered, “Sorry, professor,” his only acknowledgement of his misery, but Flitwick called him back. Harry grimaced and turned around obediently, knowing that he deserved whatever happened next. He stared at his feet and waited to discover his punishment.

“I’m told you conjured a corporeal patronus last night, Potter,” Flitwick squeaked. Harry blinked and at last looked up at the diminutive professor, startled.

“What?” said Harry.

“That’s very impressive Charms work, you know,” Flitwick told him happily, eyes twinkling. “Obviously you have Professor Lupin’s lessons to thank for your mastering such a spell, but I like to think that the fundamentals you’ve learned in here had something to do with it too, eh?” He beamed up at Harry, who felt like his brain was swimming through molasses as he tried to process the unexpected direction of Flitwick’s conversation.

“Er—yes,” he said stupidly, “yes I think so. Absolutely.”

“Well, perhaps you can demonstrate for me sometime,” Flitwick said. “I would love to see it.”

“Oh,” said Harry, “yes. Yes of course. I’d be glad to.”

“Well, better run along to lunch now,” Flitwick said. “Wouldn’t want your friends to start worrying what’s kept you, not after how close we all came to disaster last night, eh?”

“Oh,” said Harry again, “no. Of course not. Right. Thanks, professor.”

“Good work, Harry,” Flitwick called after him as Harry scurried away before the Charms professor thought to add a detention to his compliments.

When he caught up with his friends, they wanted to know where he had been all morning. Harry spent the walk down to the Great Hall telling them about his meeting with Cornelius Fudge and the Auror Kinglsey Shacklebolt. Draco was quick to assure Harry that as soon as he talked to his father, Mr. Malfoy would use his influence to force Fudge to “be sensible.” Harry, remembering what Dumbledore had said about how the Ministry would view the Malfoys’ family connections, was not as confident, but he said nothing. The last thing he wanted to do was offend Draco so that he would decide not to ask his father to try at all.

Draco started to fill Harry in on the rumors he had missed hearing, beginning with a long story he’d gotten from Pansy about her visit to the Hospital Wing with Daphne and Astoria. Harry was yawning by the end of it; his late and busy night was catching up to him. He dragged himself in to lunch where he revived a little: he was ravenous despite the pastry he’d eaten in Dumbledore’s office.

He also caught-up on plenty more gossip while he ate. Sitting next to Pansy, who was famous—or perhaps _infamous_ —for being one of the biggest gossips at Hogwarts, he was treated to a recitation of all the most outlandish and interesting rumors that had been circulating through the school. Despite the scandal of Sirius Black slipping away from right under the Ministry’s noses, the main topic of conversation was Professor Lupin’s lycanthropy.

Harry learned a lot about werewolves, chiefly the fact that most people in the wizarding world really didn’t like them. He frowned as he listened, and ate slower, distracted. “That’s not true,” he couldn’t resist chiming in, when Pansy told them that she had heard from a boy in Gryffindor that Professor Lupin had chased several students through the halls last night and they had narrowly escaped with their lives.

Everyone turned to stare at him. Harry swallowed and put down his spoon, but he made himself glare back steadily. “I talked to Professor Lupin this morning,” he said, and several people gasped. “He’s got a potion he drinks that lets him keep his senses when he transforms. He spent the night in his office. If he chased anyone, it was just because they happened to be going the same direction he was when he was heading there, and they ran when they saw him.” Seeing disbelief on their faces, he added smugly, “It's called Wolfsbane Potion. Professor Snape brews it for him. I saw him bring Professor Lupin a dose myself. It looks disgusting.”

That changed the conversation; suddenly all everyone wanted to talk about was the Wolfsbane Potion and why Snape would do such a favor for a teacher he obviously hated. Feeling pleased with himself, Harry sneaked a glance at the staff table. There was no sign of either Professor Lupin or Professor Snape. Harry frowned, realizing suddenly that Professor Lupin’s “illnesses” were doubtless nothing but a cover for the exhaustion of his transformations. He was amazed that no one had noticed that the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor always fell ill at the full moon—not that _he_ had paid any attention to the timing either, of course.

“So Snape wasn’t trying to poison him after all,” Draco said. He sounded disappointed.

“Huh?” said Harry. “Oh, right—yeah, I guess not. Although from the face Professor Lupin made, it probably tasted the same as if he had.”

“Oh no,” said Theodore Nott, “if Snape wanted to poison someone, he’d be sure to make whatever it was taste delicious, I don’t doubt.”

Harry had to admit that Theodore was probably right. He eyed his half-empty goblet of pumpkin juice and decided that he wasn’t thirsty anymore.

 

They had double-potions with the Gryffindors after lunch. “Good,” Draco said, “we can finally make Granger explain things.” Harry nodded agreement; the only thing able to distract him from his worries about Sirius right now was his curiosity about what Hermione had done and said last night.

They took the table next to hers and leaned over, ignoring Sophie Roper who gave them a dirty look for bumping her cauldron. “Right,” Harry said without preamble, “I think we deserve some explanations. Not that I’m not grateful you helped, but—”

“Potter talked to the Ministry this morning,” Draco interrupted. His gray eyes glittered. “He’ll tell you what they said if you tell us what you were on about last night,” he offered eagerly.

Hermione looked at them tiredly. There were dark circles under her eyes and her hair was almost twice its usual size. She looked exhausted. “I _told_ you,” she snapped, “I can’t talk about—”

The door slammed and everyone jumped. Snape stormed in like a sudden thundercloud. “Take out your books,” he snarled, and jerked a hand angrily at the blackboard. “Your instructions are on the board. Get to work!”

No one could remember ever seeing the Potions Master in such a foul mood before. The class shrank back and hurried to do as they were told. When Draco tentatively raised his hand and asked if anything was wrong, Snape told him to focus on his potion or be docked points. Harry couldn’t remember Snape ever threatening to take points from Draco, and he looked like he meant it. No one else dared speak all lesson and Draco, white-faced, didn’t say another word to anyone.

When the bell finally rang, the class fled as fast as they could pack, everyone eager to leave before Snape lost his temper with them. Harry wasn’t sure if Draco would be up for interrogating Hermione some more after being censured by his favorite professor, but he was still curious and he wanted answers. He shoved his potioneering supplies into his bag in a jumble and ran to catch-up with Hermione as she stepped out through the door, but when Harry turned into the hallway she had already vanished. He gaped, wondering how she could have disappeared so fast, but he didn’t dare stay and look for her with Snape in such a black mood. Harry joined his housemates and they hurried out of the dungeon together in uncommonly meek silence.


	19. Owl Post Again

Since the Slytherins didn’t have another Defense Against the Dark Arts class until Wednesday, Harry didn’t see Professor Lupin again until breakfast the next day. He still looked tired and strained, but he was up and about again, and seemed to be his usual self, if a bit quieter. Harry hoped that no one was going to say anything rude during class, but he needn’t have worried: any rudeness the Slytherins might have attempted couldn’t possibly have held a candle to what happened when the owls arrived with the morning post.

A great number of birds flew up to the staff table, many of them dropping letters by Dumbledore’s place, but a great many more of them flying straight for Professor Lupin. Most of those letters came in bright red envelopes, like the Howler that Neville Longbottom had gotten from his grandmother.

The noise of student conversations slowly faded as everyone turned to watch. Lupin appeared to sigh tiredly and shake his head before reaching for the nearest letter, an expression of resignation on his lined face. Before he could touch the first Howler, Professor McGonagall shoved her chair back and stood up. She walked down the table to Professor Lupin, pointed her wand at the pile of red envelopes, and said quite loudly, “ _Incendio_.”

The Howlers went up in a burst of flame, a cloud of smoke, and a mingled cacophony of shrieks and swear words. Harry clamped his hands over his ears; all around the Great Hall, other students were doing the same. Little Astoria Greengrass, still skittish from her experience as Sirius’s hostage, actually dove under the table. The babble of overlapping voices faded quickly as the Howlers burned to ash.

Looking quite pleased with herself, Professor McGonagall returned to her seat with her chin in the air. Professor Lupin stared, dumbfounded, at the pile of cooling ashes on the table in front of him. Glancing at Professor Dumbledore to see his reaction, Harry saw the headmaster hide a smile behind his hand. The only one of the teachers who didn’t react was Professor Snape; his sallow face rigid and expressionless, Snape stared straight ahead, as if he hadn’t seen or heard anything, despite sitting only a few chairs away from Professor Lupin and the shrieking Howlers.

Harry shivered at the expression on the Potion Master’s face and turned back to his food quickly. He didn’t know what had put Snape in this dark mood, but he knew he didn’t want to find out.

 

Three more Howlers came at lunch. This time one of them was addressed to Professor Dumbledore. He took his into the little room behind the staff table to listen in privacy; when he returned Harry thought his smile looked a little strained, but he made a point of clapping Professor Lupin on the back encouragingly before he resumed his place at the table. As for Lupin’s Howlers, this time it was Professor Sprout who took care of them, vanishing both red envelopes with a twist of her wand. It was a lot less dramatic than the way Professor McGonagall had handled the previous batch, but of course since most people sent their post in the morning, Sprout had had fewer Howlers to deal with.

Harry was the first out the door after lunch, eager to get to Defense Against the Dark Arts. Most of the class came tight on his heels, everyone curious to see what Professor Lupin would do now that his secret was out. For once, nobody wanted to sit at the front of the room, not even Draco. The back desks were crowded as people dragged chairs over so they could sit three or even four together. Harry gave his friends a withering look and took the desk right in the middle of the front row, making several people gasp and whisper behind his back. He ignored them and glared at his friends. Goyle looked confused but Crabbe didn’t; he shook his head at Harry like Harry was being an idiot, and stayed where he was. Draco didn’t move either. He flapped his hands nervously at Harry, motioning for him to move back and join the rest of them in the last row. Harry turned his back and resolutely faced the front of the room.

To his surprise, someone sat down at the desk next to his. “I’ve never talked to a werewolf before,” said Lilian Moon, her hair today an eye-smarting shade of violet. “Have you? Well,” she corrected herself before Harry could speak, “I suppose I have, but since we didn’t know he was a werewolf until yesterday, does it really count?”

Harry was saved from having to think of an answer when the door opened and Professor Lupin walked in. Lupin smiled at the class, but Harry thought he saw hurt—but no surprise—in the professor’s tired eyes as he looked over the empty rows of desks and the clump of students clustered together in the back of the room. His smile firmed a little when he looked at Harry and Lilian, then his expression sobered and he sat down at his desk.

There was no need to tell the class to quiet down; everyone was silent, their eyes fixed on Professor Lupin.

“Well,” he said, “good afternoon, class. I thought perhaps today we would jump ahead in our lesson plans a little. If it’s not too much of a disappointment, instead of discussing the Pogrebin, I thought we might talk about the werewolf.” Lupin smiled gently. “It has come to my attention that some of you may have a few questions about this creature.”

For a moment there was dead silence, then nearly every hand went up at once. Lilian almost hopped out of her chair trying to get Professor Lupin’s attention. Harry shrank down in his seat and wished he could disappear. After hearing some of the things his housemates had said about werewolves at lunch, Professor Lupin was the last person he wanted to talk about them with. No one else in the class shared his reluctance; even Crabbe had his hand up, and he was the first person that Professor Lupin called on, perhaps for the novelty.

“You ever ate anybody?” he asked, his beady eyes alight.

Professor Lupin frowned. “No,”  he said sharply, then with a visible effort he pulled himself back under control. “It is extraordinarily uncommon for a werewolf to eat a person, all rumors to the contrary,”  
 he explained in a valiant attempt at his usual, calm tones. “In fact, there have been no reliably documented cases of this ever occurring—although,” he admitted, holding up a hand to forestall the torrent of objections that poured forth from the class, “there are more than enough stories throughout history of such tragic events that one cannot discount the possibility that some of them are true.” Lupin’s face was grim as he spoke. “Regardless, a werewolf does not attack humans from hunger; it wants to bite, to infect, not to feed.”

The class stared at him, wide-eyed and fearful. Even Harry shivered as Lupin continued. “Because the human mind is not in control when the werewolf is transformed into their animal shape, it is not uncommon for those attacked—particularly when they are Muggles—to die of their injuries, but this is a result of the werewolf being out of control and going too far, rather than a deliberate attempt to kill. The werewolf does not reproduce through normal means, since lycanthropy is a magical illness and thus the werewolf is not itself a natural creature. The only way for a werewolf to make more werewolves is to bite someone while they are in their wolf form under a full moon. As such, a werewolf is no more threat than any other person when they are in their human form.” He swallowed hard. You could have heard a pin drop in the classroom. Even Goyle was hanging on every word as Lupin spoke: “Nonetheless, there is a great deal of stigma against the condition in the magical world, and it is thus not uncommon for those who are bit to prefer being allowed to die of their injuries rather than to live on as a werewolf themselves.”

After a moment of silence, Theodore Nott tentatively raised his hand. “Sir,” he said, “is it true that you were bitten while attempting to procure a werewolf for us to study?”

Lupin’s smile was sad. “No,” he said, “I was bit when I was a very small boy. I have been a werewolf for most of my life, although until this past Monday night, my condition was known to only a few. And yes,” he said loudly, as the class began to whisper again, “one of those who knew was Professor Dumbledore, as did most of the rest of the staff here. Your own Head of House, Professor Snape, has been brewing Wolfsbane Potion for me all year, so that I might retain my human mind when I transform.

“Now, the Wolfsbane Potion is a recent invention,” Lupin continued briskly, “developed by Damocles Belby, for which he was awarded the Order of Merlin. This potion is an exceptionally difficult brew and Professor Snape is one of the few potioneers active today who are capable of producing it. I myself lack the skill necessary to brew it, and if produced incorrectly, the Wolfsbane Potion can easily be fatal. Due to the difficulties in manufacture it is very expensive to purchase, too expensive for the average werewolf to obtain on a regular basis. Nonetheless, it is seen as a great step forward for the lycanthropic population, and has also been used to good effect by the Ministry in their efforts to curtail werewolf attacks by those who fail to secure or seclude themselves properly before a full moon.”

He paused in his lecture to smile at the class and said gently, “And yes, I was properly dosed on Monday night, and thus remained in control of myself when I transformed, as some of you witnessed. I apologize for not being able to explain and reassure you at the time, but while the Wolfsbane Potion allows a werewolf to keep their human mind, it does nothing to lessen the physical effects of the transformation—including the part where I trade my human voicebox for a wolf’s snout.”

There was a brief titter of nervous laughter.

“Now,” Lupin went on, in something much closer to his usual lecturing style, “it is impossible to recognize a werewolf on sight when they are in their human form—as you have all seen for yourselves this year—and even when transformed, at first glance a werewolf looks very similar to an ordinary wolf, but upon closer inspection you will find that it is not at all difficult to tell the two apart—and not merely because a common wolf has little interest in humans while a werewolf, when in its natural state, cannot help but want to attack them. There are five key signs that distinguish a werewolf from an ordinary wolf. Can anyone tell me what they are?”

Fewer hands went up now. Glancing over his shoulder, Harry saw that most of his classmates still looked shaken, and he was glad that Professor Lupin was staying at his desk rather than walking through the classroom, as he sometimes did. Harry wasn’t sure that the rest of the class wouldn’t turn tail and bolt if Lupin approached them. He frowned and turned back around, forcing himself to listen to the rest of Professor Lupin’s lecture and trying not to dwell on how awkward it was to be taught a Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson by the very creature that they were learning to defend themselves from.

He was sure he wasn’t the only one distracted by the thought.

When the lesson ended Professor Lupin asked if anyone had any further questions for him. For a long moment no one spoke, then Daphne put her hand up.

“Are you—are you going to stay at Hogwarts, now?” she asked nervously.

“Ah,” said Professor Lupin. “You mean now that my condition has been revealed?” He offered her a reassuring smile and Daphne nodded, then ducked her head. “Yes,” Lupin said, turning to face the rest of the class as well, “I am going to stay. I am sure that some of you will find it to be an awkward adjustment, having been told stories of vicious werewolves all your lives, but none of you are in any more danger from me now than you were at the beginning of the year, and as long as Professor Snape continues to oblige me by generously providing me with Wolfsbane Potion each month, there is no reason to expect that I ever will be. Besides,” he added with a sudden trace of sly humor, “have you ever had a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher who was on such intimate terms with his subject?”

Almost everyone laughed at that, although there was a faintly hysterical tinge to many of the chuckles.

“Well then,” said Lupin, “I will see you all on Friday for your next lesson. Don’t forget to bring your essay on werewolves. I look forward to reading them,” he said lightly, and Harry was sure he wasn’t the only one who squirmed in his seat. “Class dismissed,” Lupin told them, and nodded a polite farewell.

The Slytherins whispered to one another as they slowly gathered their things and filed out, most of them darting nervous glances at Professor Lupin as they passed; others kept their heads down and refused to meet his eyes. Draco was careful to hold his robes out of the way so that they wouldn’t brush against anything on his way out the door.

Harry left last, lingering on the threshold. At last he blurted out, “I’m glad you’re staying,” and bolted before Lupin could say anything back.

As soon as the class turned the corner, they burst into talk:

“I can’t believe he’s been a werewolf all year! And we never knew!”

“Do you know, I always thought there was something weird about him.”

“Dumbledore hired him! Knowing he’s a werewolf! The man is mental!”

“My mum is going to flip when she hears!”

“Mine already has—I’m pretty sure I recognized her owl bringing one of those Howlers!”

 “I don’t think I’m ever going to feel clean again.”

“Has he really been drinking something Professor Snape brewed for him every month? I’m amazed he’s still alive, I’d have expected Snape to have done him in months ago!”

“Maybe somebody should. I mean…a _werewolf_.”

“He seems so…so _human_.”

“My dad’s always said, you never can tell….”

“Well, blood will out. He’ll do something he shouldn’t, just you wait….”

Harry trailed further and further behind the others, feeling more miserable with every step and not entirely knowing why. Eventually he had to run to catch-up so he wouldn’t be late for Transfiguration. With Gryffindor’s final Quidditch fast match approaching, Professor McGonagall had been acting even more testy than usual, and Harry didn’t want to give her any reason to dock points from Slytherin.

He was delayed on the way by Ron Weasley, who stepped out of line from a group of Gryffindors heading downstairs and stopped in front of Harry. Harry stepped back, slipping his hand into the pocket that held his wand, ready for whatever Weasley threw at him—he thought.

 “I didn’t know,” Weasley said shortly.

Harry frowned, highly suspicious. “Didn’t know what?” he asked warily.

“About—about Scabbers. About what he—who he—was.” Weasley looked at the ground, as if that was easier than meeting Harry’s eyes. “Hermione told me,” he muttered.

“Oh,” said Harry.

Weasley looked up with a glare. “Don’t believe me then,” he said, “fine. I guess you’ve no reason to. I sure don’t have any reason to like you. But I would never help You-Know-Who.” His glare flicked up the hallway toward the distant Slytherins, then settled back on Harry with a smolder. “Not ever. My family’s always been against him and everybody like him. We’re blood-traitors, you know, the whole family. And proud of it.” Weasley’s chin jutted forward defiantly.

Harry wasn’t sure what that had to do with anything, but he didn’t want to admit that in front of Weasley. He made a note to ask Draco about it later. “All right,” he said, but Weasley wasn’t done:

“Two of my uncles—my mum’s brothers—died in the war, fighting against You-Know-Who. And the only reason my mum and dad didn’t fight was because they had kids to look after so they couldn’t.” He went pale suddenly, perhaps remembering that he was talking to someone whose parents had fought, and died, and left their son alone. Weasley swallowed and went on quickly, “Anyway, so what I’m saying is that I’d never do anything to help You-Know-Who. And if I’d known what he was, I would have—I would have killed Scabbers myself,” he finished fiercely.

For a moment Harry couldn’t think of anything to say. He stared, gobsmacked, at the red-head glaring at him. Then he said, “I believe you.” He held out his hand and after a moment, Ron shook it. “Sorry you lost your rat, though.”

“Oh, well,” said Ron, with a shrug and a tone of forced casualness, “he was pretty rubbish anyway. Even aside from that whole ‘being a murderer’ thing.” A grimace of disgust passed across his freckled face. “Urgh,” he said, as though just realizing it, “I let him sleep in my _bed_.”

Harry couldn’t help it: he burst out laughing.

 

The rest of the week dragged, Harry doing his best to ignore the piles of letters—and Howlers—that continued to collect on the staff table, while keeping his ears pricked to hear any word of Sirius. He figured if the Ministry caught him, it would be front page news. He wasn’t as sure that the _Daily Prophet_ would be informed if the Aurors decided to switch their hunt from Sirius to Pettigrew, and while Draco had written to his father to see if he could do anything to help, they had yet to hear back from Mr. Malfoy.

On Saturday morning, Harry got an even better delivery than he could have hoped for: Three heart-faced barn owls flew to the Slytherin table carrying a long, thin package between them. They dropped it on the table right in front of Harry, knocking his bacon to the floor. They had hardly fluttered out of the way when a very tiny owl zipped into the air they had just vacated. It was carrying a letter that was much too big for it, and made several circles around Harry’s head before he could catch it. It felt like a very fluffy Snitch. The owl dropped its letter onto Harry’s lap, hooted proudly, and zipped off again.

Harry picked up the letter. It was addressed to him. He ripped open the letter and started to shout, only remembering at the last minute to keep his voice down: “It’s from—! It’s from Sirius,” he told his friends in an excited whisper.

“What?” said Draco, startled. He leaned sideways to read over Harry’s shoulder, the long package temporarily forgotten.

> _Dear Harry,_
> 
> _You must know by now that I got away safely. I’m in hiding now. I won’t tell you where, in case this owl falls into the wrong hands, or someone sneaks a peek at your mail._
> 
> _I believe the dementors are still searching for me, but they haven’t a hope of finding me here. You can’t blame yourself if the Ministry wouldn’t listen to you; they tend to be very set in their ways. I didn’t want to discourage you when you were already doing so much for me, but I never thought it likely that they would believe me innocent. That’s why I came to kill Peter myself rather than trying to tell anyone the truth._
> 
> _I owe you a great deal and I want to thank you, and your friends, for what you did for me. I’d like to give a little something back, in my turn. Here’s your broomstick, returned with no harm done. It would be bad form of the worst sort for me to keep it when it was meant to be a gift from me to you, not the other way around. Please consider it as thirteen birthdays’ worth of presents from your godfather._
> 
> _I would also like to apologize for the fright I think I gave you that night last year when you left your uncle’s house. I had only hoped to get a glimpse of you before starting my journey north, but I think the sight of me alarmed you._
> 
> _If you ever need me, send word. Your owl will find me._
> 
> _I’ll write again soon._
> 
> _**Sirius**_

Harry read through the letter a second time, smiling, before he folded it up and stuck it in his pocket. Then he tore the butcher’s paper off his Firebolt, with his friends’ eager help, and sat back, looking at his beautiful broomstick.

He looked up at his friends. “Who wants to go flying?” he asked.

 

For the rest of the month Harry did his best to focus on his lessons, knowing that exams were drawing near. The teachers helped with that: they seemed to think that the best way to help the students revise was to assign twice the usual amount of homework which had Harry and his friends working ‘til all hours. Harry was relieved that Slytherin had played their last Quidditch match already; he would never have been able to keep up with all his work on top of a full practice schedule.

The Ravenclaw and Gryffindor players were tense and busy, and the whole school was eager to see how the Quidditch season would end. On the Saturday of the last match they all woke early and headed out to the Quidditch pitch to get good seats. It seemed like every single Slytherin was wearing a bit of blue or a scrap of bronze and many of them had brought banners and flags emblazoned with eagles to wave. Several simply sported anti-Gryffindor slogans and graphics: lions with big X’s drawn through them, clever (and not-so-clever) jokes, or simple red G’s that had been scribbled-out. Draco had a banner that said “You’re Bird Food Lions!” on it, which he gave to Crabbe and Goyle to hold.

Harry had pinned a blue rosette to his shirt but he demurred when Draco offered to get him one of the “Loser Lions” buttons that several of the older Slytherins were passing around. He didn’t want Hermione to see him wearing something so pointedly anti-Gryffindor, even though she had to be expecting him to support Ravenclaw with the rest of his housemates. “Suit yourself,” Draco said, and pinned one of the buttons to his hat at a jaunty angle.

They were sitting in one of the front rows of the Ravenclaw supporter section and had an excellent view. Most of the other seats around them had been claimed by older students, but with Crabbe and Goyle along, nobody dared try and bully Harry and his friends into moving.

Harry cheered along with everyone else when the teams walked out onto the pitch. For an odd, heady moment he had the strangest thought that Cho Chang’s wave had been meant for him alone, but then Madam Hooch blew her whistle and Harry forgot about everything but watching the game.

It was a furious match and by the time it was over Harry’s throat hurt from screaming. Once again Gryffindor’s superb Chasers, blood-thirsty Beaters, and grim-faced Keeper had snared a strong lead, but it wasn’t enough to make-up for their new Seeker’s inexperience. Chang pulled the same kind of feint she had used on Harry but this time it resulted in her competition plowing into the ground face-first. The Gryffindors managed to drag their Seeker back into the air, but he was wobbly. When the Snitch swooped past his ear Harry was sure he was going to fall off trying to grab it. He stayed on his broom, but couldn’t do anything to stop Chang from darting in and grabbing the fluttering golden sphere, winning the game for Ravenclaw by a margin of only ten points.

Cho was carried off the field by her teammates. Harry cheered as loudly as anyone in Ravenclaw.

 

The Slytherins celebrated all afternoon, elated to continue their winning streak for another year. Harry happily accepted congratulatory pats on the back, cheers in his honor, and a number of treats—although he was careful to share the latter with Draco, who seemed to be torn between joining the celebration and feeling miffed that he wasn’t being treated to the same level of accolades as the regular players. On Harry’s urging he re-told the story of their stealing the Firebolt back from Snape—with several embellishments that hadn’t been in the last version—and that seemed to cheer him up.

Harry was trying to explain Muggle football to a perplexed Goyle when Snape finally showed-up to tell everybody to quiet-down. He had been waspish and harsh ever since the night of Sirius’s escape, and Harry had caught the Potions Master staring at him suspiciously over the lip of his cauldron whenever the class was busy with their tasks. From the way his black eyes burned as he glared at them, it didn’t seem that Slytherin winning the Quidditch Cup had improved his mood. “Don’t you all have exams soon?” he snapped. “Get out your books or get some rest, but either way, put an end to this racket.”

He scowled at them all until they reluctantly trooped off to bed.

The next morning the Slytherins faced the reaction of the rest of the school. They entered the Great Hall to a resounding chorus of insults, catcalls, and threats. McGonagall shouted for order but her heart didn’t seem to be in it; Gryffindor’s loss had clearly hit her hard and she looked like she hadn’t slept a wink.

She wasn’t the only one taking things badly. On his way out of breakfast Harry stumbled onto an argument between Oliver Wood and Roger Davies, the Ravenclaw captain.

“And I suppose you think we ought to have thrown the match to make you feel better, is that it?” Davies demanded hotly, his handsome face flushed.

“Of course not!” Wood retorted, his cheeks even redder. “But you can’t be short-sighted when you’re captain, thinking only about the matches as individual events and not looking at the bigger picture of the whole season!”

“So you think I should have told my team to lose on purpose?”

“I think you should have remembered that you didn’t have a chance of beating Slytherin out for the Cup and we did!”

They might have come to blows or hexes right there in the entrance hall if they hadn’t noticed Harry lurking in the doorway. Davies and Wood both turned equally murderous glares on him and Harry slunk away as quickly as he could. For the first time in his life he was glad to have loads of homework to do; it made for a perfect excuse to not leave the common room again until dinner, although he didn’t remain happy about his large workload for long.

The weather was no help: as June approached, the days became cloudless and sultry, and all anybody felt like doing was strolling onto the grounds and flopping down on the grass with several pints of iced pumpkin juice, perhaps playing a casual game of Gobstones or watching the giant squid propel itself dreamily across the surface of the lake.

But they couldn’t. Instead of lazing around outside, the students were forced to remain inside the castle, trying to bully their brains into concentrating while enticing wafts of summer air drifted in through the windows. Even Crabbe and Goyle were bent over their books, although that probably had more to do with Draco getting annoyed at how distracting they were and ordering them to shut-up and at least pretend to study than it did any genuine academic motivation. Draco wasn’t the only one feeling testy; Ellis, the prefect who had so ably diffused everybody’s panic about Sirius Black over the winter, was no longer either calm or easy-going: she had important tests in her immediate future and she gave increasingly severe punishments to anybody who disturbed the quiet of the common room in the evenings. She wasn’t the only one; even the sixth year prefects, who didn’t have special exams, were stressed by their first year of N.E.W.T.-level classes, and snapped at the younger students for goofing-off.

Once again though, Hermione Granger was the busiest of them all. As far as Harry could tell she now lived in the library. He wasn’t sure she’d even come to the last Quidditch match. Every time he saw her she had her nose buried in another book, furiously scribbling notes one-handed. He would have liked to ask her more questions about the night that Sirius escaped, but she shook off every attempt he made to talk with the excuse of having to study. Looking at the pile of books in her arms and the bags under her eyes, Harry could tell she wasn’t making it up.

When exam week began, Harry found himself regretting every stolen moment on his Firebolt. The tests and tasks they had been set were grueling. Even Theodore Nott complained and Crabbe and Goyle were utterly miserable. The only exam Harry enjoyed was the one for Defense Against the Dark Arts. Professor Lupin had compiled the most unusual exam any of them had ever taken; a sort of obstacle course outside in the sun, where they had to wade across a deep paddling pool containing a grindylow, cross a series of potholes full of Red Caps, squish their way across a patch of marsh while ignoring misleading directions from a hinkypunk, then climb into an old trunk and battle with a new boggart.

“Excellent, Harry,” Lupin muttered as Harry climbed out of the trunk, grinning. “Full marks.”

Flushed with his success, Harry hung around to watch the rest of the class. A few people remained skittish around Professor Lupin, although most of them had relaxed as the weeks went by with no sign of him wanting to bite anyone. Their nerves were high today though, and not just because of exams: there was a full moon tonight, the first since everyone had learned that Lupin was a werewolf. The Slytherins waiting their turn to take the test stood clustered together, whispering and staring at the sky, despite it being early afternoon and the sun quite bright in the cloudless sky.

Professor Lupin did a very good job of pretending not to notice them talking behind his back, keeping his eyes fixed on each student as they navigated their way through the test. Crabbe did remarkably well until he went into the trunk; he came out in a hurry, looking red-faced and sweaty, and wouldn’t tell anyone what had happened. Goyle had much less trouble with his boggart—Harry suspected that Draco had coached him about turning the basilisk into a jumping rope—but the hinkypunk successfully confused him into sinking waist-high into the quagmire. Harry didn’t think that should have come as a surprise to anyone; Goyle’s willingness to take orders was one of his most valuable traits. Draco did everything perfectly until he reached the trunk with the boggart in it. He came out shaking with fear and blubbering about the Dark Lord. Since Lupin now knew that it was no mere prefect that Draco was afraid of, he was quite sympathetic, patting him on the shoulder reassuringly.

When Draco saw who was comforting him he scrambled up, white-faced, and shrieked for Professor Lupin to “Keep your filthy paws to yourself!” which resulted in a long, awkward silence.

Then Professor Lupin said, his voice mild, “I do apologize. Are you all right, Mr. Malfoy?”

“I’m perfectly fine!” Draco said, bellying his ghostly complexion, and stalked away in high dudgeon.

Harry lingered, trying to think of some way to apologize for his friend.

“It’s quite all right, Harry,” Lupin said, a bit stiffly. “I’m used to it. I don’t blame Mr. Malfoy for his feelings at all, and he was under quite a lot of stress from confronting the boggart. I don’t think there’s any reason to take points for his behavior.”

That hadn’t been what Harry was worried about, but he didn’t know how to explain better, so he muttered a farewell to Professor Lupin and trudged off after his friends. He was glad that Defense Against the Dark Arts had been their last exam of the day. They could all finally relax while they waited for their results. Harry’s suggestion that they go flying, and take turns on his Firebolt, was met with unanimous enthusiasm. By the time they went inside for dinner, he had almost forgotten the ugly scene with Professor Lupin.

The sight of a fresh pile of Howlers at the staff table reminded Harry that his favorite professor wasn’t universally beloved. Harry picked at his food and wished he could talk to Sirius again.

After dinner Professor Lupin drew Harry aside for a private word. “I wanted you to be the first of the students to know,” he said. “I didn’t want to tell you all earlier and risk distracting you during your exams, but—I’m going to resign at the end of the year.”

“What?” Harry exclaimed, horrified. “Professor, you can’t! You’re the best Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher we’ve ever had! Don’t go!”

Lupin shook his head. “I’m honored you think so, Harry, but I can’t stay. It isn’t fair to the school, or to Professor Dumbledore, or to the other teachers, to force everyone here to bear the burden of my condition. There are too many parents who don’t want a werewolf teaching their children, no matter what precautions are taken. The school governors have been discussing the possibility of getting involved and forcing Dumbledore to sack me. I don’t want to put him in the position of trying to oppose them, nor that of being forced to acquiesce to their will. The governors have always allowed the Hogwarts Headmaster a great deal of leeway in choosing his own teachers; I don’t want to be the precedent that encourages them to start meddling. And I don’t want to make it difficult for any students to concentrate on their learning because they don’t feel comfortable—or safe—around one of their teachers.”

“But professor—!”

“No, Harry,” Lupin smiled at him sadly. “I’ve already tendered my resignation to Dumbledore, and he has informed the school governors. I believe that knowing that I’ve decided to leave on my own at the end of the year is the only thing that’s stopped them from taking action themselves. So you see, it’s too late for you to try and change my mind. This is really for the best, Harry. For everyone—especially the students. It’s not fair to them to force them to take classes from something they fear and despise.”

Harry stared up into Lupin’s tired, lined face, feeling the same sense of defeat that had dragged at him when Fudge refused to listen to the truth about Peter Pettigrew. He couldn’t think of anything else to say, so he settled for a simple, “Well I’ll miss you, anyway.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Lupin said. “That means a great deal to me.” His eyes looked overbright in the flickering torchlight. He cleared his throat and said, “Well, I suppose I’d best get to my office before the moon comes up. No sense in upsetting anyone with a repeat of last month’s bad timing, is there?” He squeezed Harry’s shoulder and mounted the stairs, walking quickly.

Harry’s feet dragged as he returned to the dungeon.

Though exams were over, though the weather was perfect, though the atmosphere was so cheerful, though he knew that they had achieved the near impossible in helping Sirius to freedom, Harry had never approached the end of a school year in worse spirits.

He certainly wasn’t the only one who was sorry to see Professor Lupin go, although most of the school greeted the news with a palpable sense of relief.

“I wonder what they’ll give us next year,” Draco sneered derisively.

“Maybe a vampire,” suggested Blaise Zabini drily. “At least those are fashionable.”

It wasn’t only Professor Lupin’s departure that was weighing on Harry’s mind. He couldn’t help thinking a lot about Professor Trelawney’s prediction. He kept wondering where Pettigrew was now, whether he had sought sanctuary with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named yet. But the thing that was lowering Harry’s spirits most of all was the realization that the Ministry wasn’t making any effort to divert their chase from Sirius to the real villain. If they wouldn’t even take the word of The Boy Who Lived—or yield to the pressure that Harry was sure that Mr. Malfoy must be putting on them, at Draco’s request—then nothing would change their mind short of Pettigrew revealing himself. Harry doubted that the man would be that stupid. He had spent twelve years as a rat; hiding was clearly something he was accustomed to. And while no news of Sirius was definitely good news, because it meant that he had successfully gone into hiding, Harry couldn’t help but feel miserable when he thought of the exoneration that his godfather deserved.

The exam results came out on the last day of term. Harry and Draco had passed every subject. Even Crabbe and Goyle had scraped by, although just barely. Hermione Granger had scored highest of all the third years, much to the disgust of both Theodore Nott and Draco, although the latter did his best to pretend not to care.

Slytherin House, meanwhile, largely thanks to their narrow win of the Quidditch Cup, had won the House championship for the tenth year running. This meant that the end of term feast took place amid decorations of silver and green, and that the Slytherin table was the noisiest of the lot, as everybody celebrated. A ten-year victory streak was something special, and Dumbledore gave a toast in their honor, which even Gryffindor had no choice but to join in for. Harry managed to forget about the journey back to the Dursleys the next day as he ate, drank, talked, and laughed with the rest.

 

As the Hogwarts Express pulled out of the station the next morning, Harry’s spirits were low again. He had written to Sirius to tell him about winning the House Cup, but he didn’t expect to hear back for several days. He had no idea where Sirius was hiding, but he doubted that it was anywhere close by. Now he wouldn’t even have Hedwig to keep him company when he got back to the Dursleys, since she was off delivering his letter.

Harry sat sideways on the bench in the compartment he was sharing with his friends, watching Hogwarts disappear from view behind a mountain. Two whole months before he’d see it again….

“Stop moping, Harry!” said Draco with a grin. “Ten years in a row, that’s bloody impressive, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, “sorry. I was just thinking about the holidays.”

“Yes,” said Draco, “me too. I think that once I get to talk to mother and father in person and explain everything about Sirius Black, they’ll be more than happy to have you come and stay with us for a few weeks. Your Muggles won’t dare object, I’m sure.”

Harry chuckled weakly. “Not for long,” he agreed.

“You know it’s the Quidditch World Cup this summer, don’t you?” Draco added casually, which was news to Harry. “We’ll be going of course, wouldn’t dream of missing it. You could come along if you like, father won’t have any trouble getting an extra ticket for you.”

This proposal had the effect of cheering Harry up a great deal.

“Yeah…that sounds brilliant. Thanks, Draco.”

Feeling considerably more cheerful, Harry joined his friends in several games of Exploding Snap, and when the witch with the tea cart arrived, he bought himself a very large lunch, though nothing with chocolate in it.

But it was late in the afternoon before the thing that made him truly happy turned up….

“Oi, Potter,” said Crabbe suddenly, pointing over his shoulder. “Innit that your owl?”

Harry turned to look outside. It was indeed Hedwig, her white feathers and amber eyes unmistakable even through the burry glass. Harry stood up and quickly pulled down the window, stepping back out of the way so Hedwig could soar inside. She landed on the bench next to Goyle and strutted up and down, looking tired but immensely pleased with herself. She carried a grubby envelope in her beak which she proudly released into Harry’s hands.

> _Dear Harry,_
> 
> _I never thought I’d be cheering for Slytherin, but I suppose I wouldn’t be much of a godfather if I didn’t support my godson’s House, would I? Joking aside, I’m proud of your accomplishments. I’m sure your parents would be too, if they were here. I know I haven’t known you long, but in our brief meeting, I saw a boy who was courageous, loyal, and willing to risk himself for others—and one who was willing to be more than a little bit reckless. You reminded me a lot of your father, I hope you don’t mind me saying._
> 
> _Moony wrote me some about you as well, so I think I know you a little bit better than I could have from just those brief moments. He also mentioned that you’d had a bit of difficulty with your aunt and uncle last summer, so I’ve enclosed something for you that I think will make your next year at Hogwarts more enjoyable._
> 
> _I’m glad you wrote to me. I look forward to getting to know you better._
> 
> **_Sirius_ **

Harry looked eagerly inside the envelope. There was another piece of parchment in there. He read through it quickly and felt suddenly as warm and contented as though he’d swallowed a bottle of hot butterbeer in one gulp.

“It’s not the official form,” he told his friends, holding out the scrap of paper on which Sirius had written, _I, Sirius Black, Harry Potter’s godfather, hereby give him permission to visit Hogwarts on weekend,_ “but I bet Snape will say it’s good enough!”

Draco nodded. “Of course he will,” he said reassuringly. “Honestly, now that we all know there isn’t some madman out there trying to murder you, he’d probably let you go even without a permission form. He’s a reasonable man, Snape.”

Harry read and reread the letter from Sirius all the way back into King’s Cross Station. It was still clutched tightly in his hand as he, Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle stepped back through the barrier of platform nine and three-quarters. Harry spotted Uncle Vernon at once. He was standing a good distance from Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy, eyeing them nervously. In their turn the Malfoys were acting like the Dursleys were so far beneath their notice, they couldn’t even see them.

“Good to see you alive, Potter,” Mr. Malfoy said, shaking Harry’s hand.

Harry grinned, but didn’t have a chance to ask Draco’s father if there was any news from the Ministry about Sirius before Mrs. Malfoy, having finished smothering Draco with kisses, whisked the family away. Hermione came out of the magical barrier then, looking mussed and sleepy and still dressed in her school robes. “Harry, there you are!” she exclaimed, hurrying over. “I just wanted to say, have a good summer, all right? And about the—all the strange things that—well, there won’t be any more of that, is all I wanted to say. I’ve—I’ve given all that up.”

“All what—?” Harry started to ask, but Hermione was already hurrying away to find her parents. Shaking his head, Harry bid goodbye to Crabbe and Goyle, then wheeled the trolley bearing his trunk and Hedwig’s cage toward Uncle Vernon, who greeted him in his usual fashion.

“What’s that?” he snarled, staring at the envelope Harry was still clutching in his hand. “If it’s another form for me to sign, you’ve got another thing coming. I tore up the last one, and I’ll tear up—”

“It’s not,” said Harry cheerfully. “It’s a letter from my godfather.”

“Godfather?” sputtered Uncle Vernon. “You haven’t got a godfather!”

“Yes, I have,” said Harry brightly. “He was my mum and dad’s best friend. He’s a convicted murderer, but he’s broken out of wizard prison, and he’s on the run. He likes to keep in touch with me, though…keep up with my news…check if I’m happy….”

And, grinning broadly at the look of horror on Uncle Vernon’s face, Harry set off toward the station exit, Hedwig rattling along in front of him, for what looked like a much better summer than the last.

 

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for coming along with me on Harry's greenified journey so far! I hope you stick around for the next volume, _Harry Potter and the Dark Mark_. It will be a few months until I've gotten enough of the book written-out to be ready to post anything I'm afraid, but the wait should be much shorter than it was for _Secret Keeper!_ In the meantime I have a just-for-fun little lark of a fic about everyone being sorted into a different house going on [over here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8492479) or if you're interested in reading something more original, you can check out my first piece of published fiction: _[The Faerie Godmother's Apprentice Wore Green](https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=2&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0ahUKEwiJ5KOf3K7QAhVBQyYKHaG8AGcQFgghMAE&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.goodreads.com%2Fbook%2Fshow%2F28422026-the-faerie-godmother-s-apprentice-wore-green&usg=AFQjCNGaLpUTgkCMwE76xQy6LUXV_wtbwA&sig2=1ceW3O0ktUQRnaHqwgT8Fg)_. 
> 
> If you have any questions about _Secret Keeper_ , or suggestions for improvements or alterations (either to past volumes or regarding plans for the next part), I would love to hear them, or any other thoughts you have about the series so far. I don't want to say too much about _Dark Mark_ and spoil any surprises of course, but I'll do my best to answer what I can! Thanks so much for reading!


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